THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   PLUME. 


-4- 


* 

THE 


PLUME; 

A  TUFT  OF  LITERARY  FEATHERS, 


Br  JOHN  H.  WARLAND. 


"  Take  ye  this  Plume  of  mine,  faithful  warriors  of  the  cross,  who  do 
battle  for  righteousness  and  Immunity's  sake.  Its  bright  feathers  shall 
be  tell-tales  of  my  exceeding  gladness  at  your  victories — its  darker  hues 
shall  be  symbols  of  my  sorrows  if  you  fall.  Whatever  fortune  betide 
ye,  and  light  upon  your  plume,  the  down  of  its  feathers  shall  be  as.  the 
love  of  my  heart  for  your  endeavors  and  chivalrous  bearing  in  the  fight 
for  the  cross."— Dt  Lit  It  to  the  Crusaders. 


BOSTON: 

BENJAMIN  B.  MUSSEY, 
No.  29  CORNHILL. 

1847. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846, 

BY  BENJAMIN  ADAMS, 
:      in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 

A.  B.  KIDDER,  PRINTER,  7  COKNHILL. 


-••* 


TO  JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM,  ESQ., 

THE  NESTOR  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  PRESS, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    INSCRIBED, 
WITH    SENTIMENTS   Of    S1NCERK    REGARD    AND    FRIENDSHIP, 

BY    ONE    OF    THE    YOUNGER   MEMBERS 
OP    THE    EDITORIAL    FRATERNITY. 


1188744 


INTRODTJCTORY. 


DULL  and  plodding,  almost  to  a  proverb,  as  the  life  of 
an  editor  in  the  country  is,  there  are  yet  some  springs 
of  en  oyment  open  to  him  which  are  closed  to  the  more 
busy  actors  in  the  scenes  around  him.  Though  buried 
for  weeks,  months  and  years,  within  his  little  room,  and 
but  seldom  holding  communion  with  the  great  world 
without,  except  through  his  little  hebdomedal,  he  need 
not  murmur  at  his  seclusion,  if  he  will  but  sound  the  right 
note  upon  his  heart  and  his  mind.  What  though  his  own 
life  present  but  little  incident  in  itself,  calculated  to  in 
terest  those  who  tread  the  great  thoroughfares  of  the 
world  ?  Is  he  not  in  a  position,  if  he  will  but  avail  himself 
of  it,  to  become  a  spectator  and  recorder  of  heart-stirring 
scenes  in  the  lives  of  others  ?  Life,  indeed,  appears  to 
him  under  a  thousand  different  phases,  which  pass  un 
observed  by  his  little  family  of  readers.  He  is  an 
eye-witness  of  scenes  of  absorbing  interest,  and  notes 
them  down  while  yet  fresh  in  his  memory,  to  become  the 


VI  INTRODUCTORY. 

pleasant  theme  of  his  thoughts,  when  he  would  while 
away  the  leisure  hours  which  the  pauses  in  the  political 
storm  afford.  Thus;  in  the  columns  of  his  paper,  he  is 
the  politician,  the  preacher,  the  sketcher  of  the  times, 
the  biographer  and  the  moralist.  He  kills  off  the  actors 
upon  the  stage  of  the  world  under  his  obituary,  and  mar 
ries  them  under  his  hymenial,  head.  In  a  word,  he  walks 
abroad  in  his  little  kingdom,  both  as  king  and  subject, 
for  while  he  rules  and  directs  public  opinion,  he  is  yet 
the  creature  of  the  same  omnipotent  sovereign. 

It  has  been  my  habit,  while  seated  upon  my  tripod  in 
the  country,  to  look  abroad  from  the  loophole  of  my 
retreat  upon  the  busy  world  without,  and  note  down  such 
passages  in  every  day  life  as  possessed  any  interest  for  a 
retired  student  like  myself.  As  I  have  been  somewhat 
busy  in  this  way,  1  have  quite  a  collection  of  shreds  and 
patches,  prosaics  and  poetics,  some  of  which  I  propose  to 
give  the  public  in  the  same  unambitious  style  in  which 
they  were  recorded  while  fresh  in  my  recollection.  It  is 
possible  the  reader  may  have  seen  some  of  them  before. 
I  will  not  conceal  the  pleasure  which  I  have  felt,  at  times, 
when  1  have  observed  sketches  that  have  appeared  in 
my  humble  journal,  sailing  along  the  newspaporial  sea, 
and  travelling  even  beyond  the  water  to  other  shores. 
When  I  have  seen  honored  names  attached  to  some  of 
them,  I  have  complained  not.  I  have  rather  felt  gratified 
that,  by  attracting  more  attention,  they  would  do  more 
good  than  if  borne  up  only  by  my  own  humble  name.  I 


INTRODUCTORY.  Vll 

would  shine  in  no  borrowed  plumes,  and  if  they  have  been 
feathers  in  the  caps  of  others,  I  have  been  gratified  so  far 
as  they  have  touched  the  heart  or  imagination  in  the  right 
spot.  But,  although  several  of  the  articles  in  this  volume 
may  have  come  under  the  observation  of  the  reader,  he  is 
assured  that  a  large  portion  of  them  have  never  before 
appeared  in  print,  indeed  not  one  of  them  all  as  they  are 
now  presented  to  him. 

As  its  name  imports,  this  book  is  a  tuft  of  literary  feath 
ers,  of  various  shades  and  colors,  the  dark  ones  expres 
sive  of  moments  of  sorrow,  and  the  bright  of  those  of 
gladness  anH  joy.  Happiness  and  moral  purity  are  the 
great  ends  of  existence,  and  if  the  heart  can  be  made 
better,  either  through  a  smile  or  a  tear,  it  is  well — all 
well.  So  the  ptize  be  won,  what  matters  it,  how  the 
weapon  receive  its  polish,  or  with  what  metal  its  blade 
be  tempered?  The  Plume  which  I  here  present  to  the 
reader,  is  not  itself,  it  is  true,  the  nodding  plume  of  the 
warrior,  but  I  may  express  the  hope  that  it  will  never  be 
the  occasion  of  nodding  in  others.  I  am  sure  that  no 
feather,  which  it  contains,  will  be  found,  when  applied  to 
the  cheek  of  delicacy,  gentleness  and  refinement,  to  raise 
any  other  than  an  innocent  blush  or  a  praiseworthy  emo 
tion. 

I  must  add,  however,  that  there  are  a  few  lines  in  the 
volume  which  I  wish  that  I  could  erase — one  brief  poeti 
cal  article,  and  three  stanzas  in  another  of  the  same  class. 
I  am  afraid  they  may  give  pain  in  a  quarter  where  I  would 

4- 


VIII  INTRODUCTORY. 

be  the  last  to  inflict  pain.  Inasmuch,  however,  as  the 
secret  can  be  known  only  to  the  writer  and  those  who  are 
aimed  at,  I  indulge  the  hope  that  this  explanation  will 
be  received  by  them  as  an  ample  atonement. 

In  conclusion,  let  me  observe,  that  should  this  volume 
meet  with  tolerable  success,  it  will  shortly  be  followed 
by  others  of  a  similar  character  and  tendency. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTORY,       5 

THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  LIBRARY, 13 

DREAM  OF  THE  DYING  UNDYING  ONE,    .-    »     J     .     29 

TIMES'  DAY  BOOK  AND  LEDGER; 34 

THE  BUTTERFLY  TO  THE  DYING  CHILD,      ...     53 

To  A  MINIATURE, ,     ...     56 

THE  ANTLERS,        57 

ONG  OF  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWERS,  ....     6 
THE  DEVIL  AMONG  THE  BOOKS,       ......     66 

VOICE  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  BROOK,        92 

THE  MISSING  STAR 94 

THE  WESTERN  MOUNDS, 96 

CLARA    REVERE,    THE    LITTLE    BLIND    GIRL, 

(With  a  Plate,)        99 

SONG  OF  THE  BLIND  GIRL 107 

THE  TRIUMPHS  OF  LABOR, 118 

LAY  OF  THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE, 120 

THE  DEATH  OF  WOLFE, 122 

THE  FIRST  ROBIN  OF  SPRING 123 

A  SHORT  CHAPTER  ON  LONG  EARS, 126 

KATE  AND  WILL, 131 

A  RARE  VISITOR 135 

ALBUM  VERSES, 155 

AN  ESSAY  ON  GARRETTS, 159 

TOM  SKINFLINT, 176 

THE  LOVED  AND  LOST,    .  181 

I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY, 182 

THE  MOTHER  TO  HER  FIRST  BORN 185 

I    HAVE    LOVED   THEE    ON  EARTH,  MAY  I  MEET 

THEE  IN  HEAVEN, 198 


X  CONTENTS. 

THE  ORPHANS, 199 

THEY  SAT  HE  is  ANOTHER'S  NOW,        203 

MRS.  NICELY'S  SYSTEM  OF  ECONOMY,     ....  206 

APRIL  AND  JUNE, 209 

THE  MOUNTAINEER,        212 

ON  VISITING  A  GRAVE „   •  213 

To  MARY, 215 

EDITORIAL  COMFORTS.  (With  a  Plate,)     .     .     .     .218 

SCENE  IN  THE  EDITORIAL,  SANCTUM 221 

LINES  TO  A  CUCUMBER,       .     .     .    , 226 

THE  SMALL-NOSED  MAN  TO  His  NOSE,    .     .     •     .  229 
A  COTERIE  OF  TEA-POT  LADIES,      ."'.     .     ._ ' .»• .,  •  .  236 

THE  HEART  THAT'S  TRUE, 240 

ANSWER  TO  THE  OLD  ARM  CHAIR 241 

A  THANKSGIVING  EDITORIAL, 243 

THE  NEW-ENGLANDER  ABROAD  AT  THOUGHT  OF 

HIS  THANKSGIVING  HOME,    .     .    ....     .     .  252 

To  SYBIL, /.;>-{,".     .>»-"...     .     .    ~., :.'-.'    .     .     .255 

THE  IcE-KlNG   AND  THE  KlNG  OF  THE  THAW,       .    257 

THE  ROYAL  DUETT,   /:'  -^ !....:>-.,   .  '"..]  \  ..     .  260 

THE  BOBLINK,    V    /'.,_.  '.'     . 267 

To  OJ>fE  WHO  CANNOT  UNDERSTAND  IT,  ....  270 

COME,  BROTHERS,  COME!    .........  272 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  SWEET  NAMED,    ......  273 

-  .    »A 

DlTT\»  SEEN  THROUGH  GLASSES,      .     .    .     W~ .     .  275 

ASCUTNEY,     ,£; 276 

A  VERY  CLEVER  FELLOW,  BUT —     ......  279 

THE  TEAZLE  FAMILY, 284 

TEMPERANCE  HYMN, 290 

CHRONICLE  OF  THE  BENNINGTON  GUN,        .     .     .  292 

Do.  Chapter  II.       .     .    f  ^ 299 

THE  STAR  IN  THE  EAST, 808 


THE  PLUME. 


THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  LIBRARY, 

ONE  cold,  dreary,  and  drizzly  afternoon  in  au 
tumn,  some  years  ago,  I  found  myself  in  one  of 
the  proudest  cities  of  the  old  world,  threading  its 
circuitous  streets  and  alleys,  with  the  view  of  pass 
ing  the  remainder  of  an  exceedingly  uncomfortable 
day  in  one  of  the  largest  libraries  of  Europe.  I 
was  led  to  this  place  more  from  curiosity  than  any 
other  motive,  and  determined  for  the  time  to  shut 
out  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the  world.  "Let  it 
rain,  blow,  and  drizzle,"  said  I  to  myself,  "let 
the  clouds  gather  above,  and  the  sky  become  low 
ering  and  dark;  here,  at  least,  within  this  sanctu 
ary  of  great  and  good  minds,  it  shall  be  all  bright 
sunshine  to  a  weary  traveler  like  myself."  The 
shadows  of  evening  were  falling  thick  and  fast,  much 
earlier  than  usual,  and  I  feared  that  I  should  not 
be  able  to  look  into  any  of  the  numerous  volumes 
before  candle-light.  As  soon,  however,  as  the  li 
brarian  had  pointed  me  to  an  old  arm-chair,  which, 


"*• 


14  THE    PLUME. 

from  its  dimensions,  might  have  held  a  fat  abbot 
and  three  or  four  spare  and  lean  monks,  I  took  an 
old,  musty,  cobweb-covered  folio  from  a  shelf,  and, 
seating  myself  in  the  farthest  alcove  of  the  apart 
ment,  was  soon  lost  in  deciphering  its  strange  and 
antique  characters.  The  volume  was  written  by 
one  of  those  patient  scholars,  and  sharp  contro 
versialists  in  metaphysics,  who  wielded  their  pens 
against  false  systems  of  philosophy,  whose  names 
have  now  passed  away,  or  are  known  only  to  the 
student,  and  whom  it  is  the  fashion  for  modern 
writers  of  the  same  school  to  decry,  as  having 
added  nothing  to  the  sum  of  human  knowledge- 
I  insensibly  found  myself  giving  utterance  to  my 
thoughts,  now  in  the  language  of  the  old,  and  al 
most  forgotten  philosopher,  and  now  in  my  own, 

"Yes!  true  it  is,  old  Patriarch!  thou  sayest 
well!  Miserable  —  miserable,  indeed,  should  we 
be,  if  what  thy  antagonist  asserts  were  true.  Let 
not  the  world  contemn  thee  and  thy  host  of  follow 
ers,  who  consumed  their  days  and  nights  in  bat 
tling  it  with  those  vain  sophists,  who  think  death 
puts  an  end  to  our  spiritual  as  well  as  our  physical 
being.  Thou  hast  fought  the  battle  manfully  and 
well !  'Mid  all  this  ocean  of  words,  sharp  and 
keen  though  they  be,  thou  hast  fathomed  the 
depths  of  the  soul,  and,  diving  into  the  heart  of 
man,  hast  brought  up  that  imperishable  jewel  — 
Truth.  The  mind  die  !  The  soul  suffer  annihila- 


THE    GENIUS    OF    THE    LIBRARY.  15 

tion!  Well  dost  thou  write,  'All  nature  cries  out 
against  it!'  Well  dost  thou  say  to  thy  opponent, 
'  Thou  art  thyself  a  refutation  of  what  thou  dost 
aver.'  The  demigods  of  the  heathen  world,  the 
sages  and  philosophers  of  a  remote  age,  ay,  and 
the  untutored  child  that  roams  the  wilderness,  have 
embraced,  as  it  were  by  intuition,  what  thou  in  thy 
blindness  wilt  not  grasp,  although  the  morning- 
star  of  Revelation  has  beamed  upon  thy  vision. 
Plato,  Socrates,  and  Cicero  knew  the  glorious 
truth  —  and  thou,  vain  reasoner,  deniest  it  !  The 
thousand  rushing  waters  of  the  earth  make  it  the 
burthen  of  their  ever-rolling  anthem.  The  birds 
at  morn  and  eve  proclaim  it  with  their  sweetest 
song.  It  comes  to  us  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze, 
in  the  air,  and  it  is  written  in  undying  lines 
upon  the  blue  sky  above  us.  Every  living  thing 
sends  back  a  thrilling  response  to  the  involuntary 
exclamation  that  comes  from  the  hearts  of  myriads 
of  human  beings — 'We  live  hereafter!'  And 
who  art  thou,  pretender  to  wisdom!  that  proclaim- 
est  thyself  a  light  in  a  dark  age,  and  wouldst  teach 
the  nations  of  the  earth  that  they  will  die,  and  go, 
with  no  torch  to  light  them,  to  their  tomb  —  with 
no  ray  to  illumine  the  darkness  and  make  bright 
the  path  onward  to  Eternity?  Canst  thou  shut 
out  the  light  that  every  thing  sends  to  thee?  Life 
hereafter!  If  Reason  unfolded  the  glorious  truth 
to  a  few  of  the  mighty  ones  of  the  heathen  world, 


, 

Y 

16  THE    PLUME. 

to  the  Hindoo,  as  well  as  to  the  Grecian  and  Ro 
man  sage,  thinkest  thou  to  sit  in  thy  dark  cell  and 
persuade  man  that  it  is  all  a  dazzling  dream? 
Open  thine  ears  to  the  glad  tidings  that  are  break 
ing  the  shackles  which  have  kept  the  rnind  so  long 
in  bondage.  Hearken  to  that  burst  of  praise  and 
song,  which  will  sound  in  the  remotest  corners  of 
the  earth!  Away!  vain  sophist!  Knowest  thou 
not  that  the  Creator  would  not  suffer  the  sublime 
Truth,  which  thou  art  assailing,  to  die  away,  or 
be  hid  by  all  the  subtleties  which  thou  and  thy  dis 
ciples  can  weave  around  it?  Look!  the  light  of 
Revelation  is  sending  its  beams  into  the  darkest 
cell,  and  writing  the  golden  truth  upon  its  walls! 
Open  thine  eyes,  then,  curious,  but  misnamed 
'  Reasoner !  Its  radiance  is  streaming  from  a 
thousand  points,  and  showing  the  world  every  film 
of  thy  fine-spun  and  unsubstantial  subtleties. 
Rise  up,  shake  off  thy  false  philosophy,  and  em 
brace  the  Truth  ere  thou  dost  die!  " 

Thus,  in  almost  the  language  of  one  of  those 
controversialists  of  the  middle  ages,  to  whom  I 
have  alluded,  did  I  involuntarily  give  utterance  to 
my  thoughts.  There  are  subjects,  that  will  for  a 
time  lock  up  the  senses,  and  make  the  man  a  mere 
passive  being.  Among  them  are  those  themes,  the 
grandest  that  dwell  upon  our  lips,  which  concern 
our  immortal  destinies,  and  have  the  power  of 
curbing  and  guiding  the  thoughts  in  unison  with 

*$* 


THE    GENIUS    OF    THE    LIBRARY.  17 

them,  and  making  the  will  their  slave.  So  it  was 
with  me,  as  I  was  following  this  old  reasoner, 
whose  words  at  once  went  to  the  heart,  and  buried 
themselves  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  mind. 
My  eyes  were  fixed,  absorbed  as  I  was  in  thought, 
upon  something,  indistinct  in  the  distance  and  twi 
light,  at  the  farthest  side  of  the  library,  with  an  in 
tensity  and  earnestness  of  gaze  like  that  of  Ham 
let,  when,  for  the  first  time,  the  semblance  of  his 
father  comes  upon  his  vision.  A  sound  like  the 
sliding  of  folding-doors  came  to  my  ears;  the  al 
coves  widened  and  grew  larger,  expanding  and 
spreading  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  as 
if  obeying  the  potent  touch  of  a  magician's  wand. 
The  volumes,  also,  seemed  to  increase  in  size,  and 
the  names  upon  their  backs  appeared  as  if  seen 
through  a  magnifying  glass,  glowing  and  sparkling 
as  if  written  with  fire.  At  different  points  be 
tween  the  two  longest  sides  of  the  apartment, 
were  placed,  on  marble  pedestals  as  white  as  snow, 
the  sculptured  forms  of  the  Muses,  and  of  some  of 
those  mighty  ones  whom  nations  have  delighted  to 
honor.  And,  above  all,  I  was  struck  with  a  rep 
resentation  of  Fame,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  white 
scroll,  and  raising  with  the  other  a  trump  to  her 
breathing  lips.  These  forms  seemed  instinct  with 
life,  as  they  gazed  with  rapture  and  admiration  up 
on  the  immortal  volumes  around  them;  and,  as  a 
mellow  and  golden  light  diffused  itself  around  upon 


4" 

I      18  THE   PLUME. 

the  various  objects,  the  whole  scene  realized  my 
conception  of  the  magnificence  of  a  fairy  palace  in 
eastern  romance. 

As  I  sat  musing  and  wondering  at  the  novelty 
of  the  scene,  I  for  the  first  time  observed  that  a 
figure  was  approaching  me  from  the  farthest  side 
of  the  apartment.  He  bore  an  old  parchment  vol 
ume  under  his  arm,  and  leaned  upon  something 
that  resembled  an  enchanter's  wand.  His  dress 
was  in  the  fashion  of  a  remote  age,  over  which  was 
carelessly  thrown  a  loose,  flowing  mantle.  Al 
though  his  beard  was  long  and  white,  and  he  was 
arrayed  in  garments  that  might  give  one  of  thirty 
the  appearance  of  fourscore,  yet,  tottering  as  he 
was,  and  leaning  now  and  then  upon  his  wand, 
there  was  a  youthfulness  and  vigor  in  his  whole 
appearance,  and  a  fire  in  his  eye,  which  old  age, 
with  its  silver  locks  and  crutch,  but  rarely  exhib 
its.  I  took  him  for  some  one  of  those,  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  passing  their  days  in  the  libraries  of 
Europe  —  one  of  those  venerable  scholars  of  which 
the  country  affords  so  many,  who  ponder  for  years 
over  the  red-letter  folios  of  a  by-gone  age,  and 
seem  coeval  with  the  volumes  they  study  —  to 
whom  Time  has  forgotten  to  issue  his  summons. 
I  was  about  to  rise  to  offer  him  the  old  arm-chair, 
but  he  waved  his  hand  that  I  should  keep  my  seat. 
"You  seem,"  said  I,  "to  be  one  who  may  have 
seen  this  immense  library  growing  up,  volume  af- 


•*•- 

THE    GENIUS   OF    THE    LIBRARY.  19 

ter  volume,  under  your  eye,  and  may  have  num 
bered  among  your  personal  friends  many  who  have 
recorded  their  names  upon  the  scroll  of  Fame." 

"Ay!  you  may  say  that,"  replied  the  figure; 
"centuries  have  gone  by  since  the  first  volume 
was  placed  here,  and  I  was  by  to  record  its  name. 
It  is  this  which  I  hold  in  my  hand.  I  have  seen 
generations  pass  away  and  men  grow  old,  but  I  — 
1  grow  younger  as  Time  rolls  over  my  head.  My 
home  is  in  this  Library  —  this  "monument  of  ban 
ished  minds."  I  imparted  to  Faust  and  his  co-work 
ers  the  first  idea  of  that  invention  which  has  im 
mortalized  their  names,  and  wrought  such  a  won 
derful  change  in  the  condition  of  the  world.  I  was 
with  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  Worde,  in  England; 
I  rescued  many  volumes  from  the  fire  at  Alexan 
dria,  and  searched  into  monastic  cells  and  monas 
teries,  for  the  precious  manuscripts,  upon  which 
the  poor  monks,  in  their  blind  zeal,  copied  out 
their  missals.  You  see  around  you  the  result  of 
my  labors.  I  am  the  guardian  of  the  place  —  the 
GENIUS  OF  THE  LIBRARY. 

My  thoughts  went  back  to  the  period  he  men 
tioned;  and,  as  my  imagination  followed  him  in 
his  sublime  undertaking,  I  could  not  help  reflect 
ing  upon  the  toil  and  suffering,  the  anxious  days 
and  nights  to  which  the  countless  volumes  around 
us  had  given  birth. 

"What   hours   of  pain   and   suffering,"  I  ex- 


20  THE    PLUME. 

claimed,  "have  been  passed  in  the  composition  of 
these  ponderous  tonnes  !  But  what  a  balm  to  many 
a  wounded  spirit  have  they  afforded !  The  lonely 
student  has  pored  over  the  volumes  with  aching 
eyes  and  a  breaking  heart.  He  pressed  not  his  pil 
low  by  night,  and  the  blessed  beams  of  the  morn- 
inw  brought  no  refreshment  to  his  burning  brow. 

O  ~  C7 

And  all  this  for  Fame  — to  be  read  and  remembered 
when  the  eloquent  lip  is  mute,  and  the  heart  can 
ache  and  beat  no  longer.  Fame  !  thou  art  a  daz 
zling,  splendid  cheat  !  Thou  makest  fools  of  the 
wise  and  gray-headed.  We  grasp  at  thee,  but 
thou  art  not  there.  Thou  whisperest  to  the  young, 
and  they  see  a  Paradise  beyond,  which  is  still  be 
yond,  the  farther  the  youthful  aspirant  travels  up 
on  the  road.  How  few  are  the  springs  upon  the 
way-side,  where  he  may  stoop  and  cool  his  parched 
lip.  Thou  lurest  us  on,  making  our  existence  ap 
pear  a  splendid  dream,  promising  us  that  happi 
ness,  which  we  might  acquire  from  more  lasting 
and  substantial  things.  And  then,  how  much 
greater  the  fall  —  how  much  more  bitter  the  dis 
appointment  !  Why  should  we  follow  and  pant 
after  thee  up  the  hill  whither  thou  wouldst  lead  us? 
What  is  there  in  living  in  the  memory  of  men, 
ages  after  we  have  mouldered  in  the  dust,  that  we 
should  so  thirst  and  long  for  it?  Vain,  vain  is  it 
all !  Our  own  minds  and  hearts  contain  the  only 
true  and  unfailing  springs  of  happiness  in  this 


THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  LIBRARY.        21 

world.  That  men  should  not  discover  these  foun 
tains  and  drink  deep  at  them,  that,  —  when  they 
know  they  may  be  summoned  from  the  earth  and 
all  they  hold  dear  in  it,  the  next  day,  the  next 
hour,  ay,  or  the  next  moment  —  they  should  be  so 
thoughtless  of  that  other  hereafter,  is  one  of  those 
mysteries  which  no  knowledge  of  human  nature  or 
of  man's  constitution  can  solve.  Why  then  this 
passion  for  Fame  —  this  longing  to  be  remembered 
when  we  no  longer  exist,  if  we  are  regardless  of 
what  we  are  to  be  when  Time  shall  be  no  more ! 
Why  listen  with  rapture  to  the  strokes  of.  Time, 
and  heed  not  the  peals  of  Eternity  ?  " 

"  Solemn  and  true  are  thy  last  words;  but  man! 
despise  not,  nor  contemn  Fame  and  worldly  glory. 
Despise  her  not,  when  she  would  linger  around 
the  grave  of  Genius.  See  her  here  as  she  stands; 
read  the  names  that  she  has  enrolled  there.  Wor 
ship  her,  and  she  will  sound  thy  name  to  the  re 
motest  spot  on  the  earth.  Open  some  of  the  vol 
umes  that  you  see  before  you.  Here  are  the 
works  of  one  who  never  dreamed  of  being  known 
to  an  after  age;  who,  though  dead,  yet  liveth,  to 
instruct  and  enlighten  mankind.  There  are  the 
unfinished  volumes  of  another,  who  thought  to  be 
welcome  to  the  highest  seat  in  the  Temple  of  Fame, 
from  whose  mass  of  chaff  not  three  particles  of 
wheat  can  be  gathered.  Well  have  you  painted 
the  life  of  many  a  student  of  the  olden  time,  whom 


22  THE   PLUME. 

I  have  found  wrapt  in  bright  visions,  that  were 
never  to  be  realized,  when  1  knocked  at  his  hum 
ble  door.  True!  it  cannot  be  denied!  How  many 
bitter  disappointments  and  heart-aches  has  the 
poor,  care-worn  scholar  endured,  with  the  hope  of 
having  his  name  registered  upon  the  roll  of  the 
Undying  Ones!  I  see  him  now  in  his  cell,  poring 
over  the  huge  volume  by  the  midnight  taper  —  the 
hectic  flush  upon  his  cheek,  and  the  wild  glare  of 
the  mind  diseased  in  his  eye.  Morning  dawns, 
and  finds  the  poor,  exhausted  scholar,  wrapt  in 
earnestness  upon  the  magic  page,  or  putting  down 
thoughts  that  he  fain  would  believe  will  never  die. 
See  him,  pale  and  flushed,  lift  his  bright  eye  from 
the  page,  wondering  if  it  be  not  all  a  dream.  But 
Fame  hails  him  on  at  a  distance,  sounds  her  trum 
pet  in  his  ears,  clear,  full,  and  loud,  beckoning 
him  onward  to  the  dazzling  prize.  He  clasps  his 
hands  in  rapture  —  the  lamp  burns  dim,  and  dim 
mer —  the  characters  before  him  become  blurred 
and  unintelligible  —  the  light  flickers  up  —  goes 
out  —  and  the  poor  fame-cheated  student  dies  un 
known  and  unpitied  in  his  smoken  cell.  But  has 
he  not  known  such  moments  of  happiness  as  belonor 
rather  to  the  condition  of  angels  than  mortals  ?  He 
thirsted  for  an  immortality  on  earth,  and  lost  the 
prize.  Think  not,  therefore,  his  life  was  all  pain 
and  anxiety.  He  died,  believing  his  name  would 
be  cherished  forever.  Fame  cannot  be  insured 


THE    GENIUS   OF   THE   LIBRARY.  23 

during  the  short  pilgrimage  of  her  devotee.  But 
is  there  not  the  hope  she  inspires,  the  joy  she  dif 
fuses,  the  anticipation  and  the  bracing  up  of  the 
energies  of  the  mind  which  it  occasions?  These 
create  a  rapture  and  enthusiasm,  an  excitement 
and  activity  in  the  mind  and  soul,  which  no  charm 
of  wealth  and  beauty  can  equal.  Did  I  not  hear 
you  but  a  moment  ago  commenting  upon  that  sub 
lime  truth,  'The  soul  shall  never  die?'  What 
cunning  sprite  held  your  powers  in  subjection, 
that  you  did  not  see  that  the  desire  to  be  remem 
bered  when  you  are  no  more  —  that  this  very  aspi 
ration  is  one  of  the  strongest  proofs  that  you  will  in 
deed  live  on,  when  the  world  is  crumbled  to  atoms?" 

"I  acknowledge  it;  but  the  mere  existence  of 
this  thirst  for  Fame,  proves  not  that  she  is  a 
praiseworthy  object  of  pursuit.  Why  should  we 
fret  these  curious  pieces  of  divine  workmanship, 
which  enclose  a  gern  that  no  diamond  in  the  cav 
erns  of  the  earth  can  outshine  in  splendor?  Why 
should  we  wear  out  these  frail  caskets,  only  that 
this  jewel  may  send  forth  a  beam  upon  our  grave 
stones  when  we  are  gone,  —  to  show  our  names 
to  the  world,  and  tell  it  that  we  once  lived?  " 

"Man,  you  are  in  error.  Think  you  that  the 
martyrs  of  learning,  whose  immortal  works  are 
around  us,  enjoyed  no  happiness,  while  exerting 
their  god-like  energies  to  gain  a  place  upon  the 
scroll  of  Fame?  " 


4*- 


24  THE   PLUME. 

"Martyrs  of  learning!  venerable  sir!  the  bare 
expression  carries  with  it  the  best  comment  upon 
what  you  would  urge.  That  great  minds,  who 
have  stood  forth,  the  lights  of  their  age,  and  worn 
out  their  powers  in  poring  over  the  lore  of  antiqui 
ty,  that  they  might  re-produce  it  under  a  more  at 
tractive  form,  may  have  experienced  moments  of 
such  happiness,  as  falls  not  to  the  lot  of  others,  is, 
—  nay,  must  be  true;  for  happiness  is  the  birth 
right  of  the  mind,  which  it  cannot  lose,  while  ra 
tionally  exercising  its  own  powers,  whatever  the 
ultimate  object  at  which  it  would  grasp.  But  that 
they,  who  have  done  all,  endured  all,  and  risked 
all,  only  that  they  might  be  remembered  when  they 
are  no  more,  have  been  as  happy  as  the  more  de 
vout  sons  of  men,  whose  names  were  never  sound 
ed  by  the  trump  of  fame,  is  a  position,  which  these 
oracles  of  wisdom,  could  they  speak,  would  neither 
approve  nor  confirm." 

"To  you  I  appeal,"  he  exclaimed,  "  ye  speech 
less  interpreters  of  the  mind!  What  joy  did  not 
they  feel,  who  sent  you  into  the  world,  when  Fame 
whispered  her  call  into  their  ears,  dearer,  even, 
than  the  song  of  the  nightingale  to  the  poet  of  the 
east,  sweeter  than  his  lute  to  the  ravished  ear 
of  his  bride!  What  happiness  was  there  in  the 
wide  world,  like  that  which  they  knew,  when  the 
Muse  touched  their  lips  with  the  fire  of  inspiration  ? 
What  was  the  fevered  brow,  the  burning  cheek, — 


THE    GENIUS    OF    THE    LIBRARY.  25 

ay,  or  the  pale  lip,  to  the  thought  of  the  glorious 
hereafter  on  earth?  Ye  passed  away  from  the 
earth,  poets,  philosophers,  and  sages,  from  whose 
lips  thousands  of  your  disciples  drank  in  divine 
wisdom,  sitting  at  your  feet  in  the  hall,  and  in 
the  grove  by  the  hallowed  stream.  Ye  passed 
away,  but  I  have  borne  the  offspring  of  your 
minds  along  the  stream  of  Time,  and  you  now  en 
joy  what  your  untiring  spirits  thirsted  for,  while 
your  venerable  forms  were  yet  on  the  earth.  And 
so  shall  it  ever  be!  Wherever  the  foot  of  man 
has  trod,  wherever  a  name  is  spoken  with  praise 
and  admiration,  there  shall  your  own  immortal 
ones  be  sounded  too.  I  call  you  to  witness,  mute 
oracles  of  wisdom!  that  they  who  breathed  into 
you  the  breath  of  life,  felt,  in  their  moments  of 
inspiration,  such  happiness  as  all  the  allurements 
and  charms  of  the  world  cannot  bestow.  When 
their  perishable  frames  would  have  yielded  to  de 
cay  and  suffering,  the  heavenly  spark  within  still 
burned  on  bright,  sending  its  rays  through  the  fee 
ble  tenement  that  enshrined  it,  giving  it  joy  and 
vitality,  and  lighting  up  with  smiles  the  cheeks  of 
millions,  whose  very  existence,  but  for  you,  would 
have  been  a  burthen." 

He  pointed,  as  he  spake,  to  the  volumes  in  the 
alcove,  in  which  I  was  sitting,  and  I  could  have 
listened  to  him  forever,  so  impassioned  and  earnest 
was  his  manner.     I  hung  upon  his  lips,  and  drank 
3 

4- 


26  THE   PLUME. 

in  their  sounds,  as  if  eloquence  had  steeped  them 
in  her  honied  words.  He  spoke  with  an  energy 
also,  that  I  looked  not  for  in  one  of  his  years.  A 
heavenly  radiance  streamed  along  the  room,  and 
lit  up  the  countenances  of  the  sculptured  forms  be 
fore  us  with  celestial  smiles.  He  wrought  up  my 
feelings  to  such  a  degree,  that  methought  I  could 
see  the  philosophers  and  poets  of  another  age, 
whom  he  invoked,  coming  on  at  his  summons,  to 
respond  to  his  heart-stirring  appeal. 

"True!  true!"  I  exclaimed,  catching  a  portion 
of  his  enthusiasm;  "true  it  is,  nothing  can  equal 
the  happiness  of  that  mind,  which  exercises  its 
powers  for  the  noblest  ends,  fulfilling  its  own  high 
destinies,  and  creating  joy  and  love  wherever  its 
aspirations  are  breathed,  or  its  influence  is  felt. 
Let  this  be  done,  —  then  welcome,  Fame  !  Wel 
come,  with  your  smiles  and  tears,  your  joys  and 
your  sorrows!  Welcome  to  the  student's  burning 
and  fevered  brow,  as  the  morning  dews  to  the  ex 
panding  rose,  or  the  evening  breeze  to  the  flushed 
cheek  in  midsummer,  that  is  wafted  from  the  bow 
ers  of  some  paradise  beyond." 

"  I  have  roved  the  earth  for  centuries,"  he  re 
plied;  "I  have  seen  the  rich  man  luxuriating  in 
all  that  wealth  could  give,  and  the  man  of  rank 
making  the  suppliant  knee  bend  before  him.  I 
have  seen  Beauty,  splendid  and  dazzling,  draw 
murmurs  of  rapturous  applause  from  the  lips  of  ad- 


ji 

Y  ~ 


THE    GENIUS    OF    THE    LIBRARY1.  '  27 

miring  thousands.  But  I  have  seen  but  one  sight 
so  godlike  as  the  scholar,  who  trims  his  midnight 
lamp  in  his  lonely  cell,  living  for  the  good  of  oth 
ers,  and  therefore  best  answering  the  ends  of  his 
own  being,  and  thirsting  for  a  lasting  and  imperish 
able  name  among  men.  There  is  one  sight,  upon 
which  I  have  gazed  with  equal,  if  not  greater  ad 
miration:  it  is  the  unlettered  and  unknown  child 
of  adversity,  who  binds  up  the  wounds  of  his 
bruised  heart  with  the  holy  balm  of  religion,  who 
looks  into  the  Book  of  Books,  for  support  in  the 
dark  and  trying  hour,  when  he  is  called  to  suf 
fer  unmerited  reproach,  whose  every  action  is 
done  under  a  feeling  of  responsibility  to  his  God, 
and  whose  eye  beams  up  with  hope  and  joy,  as  it 
looks  through  the  dark  vista  of  Time  to  the  bright 
and  glorious  prize  of  immortality  beyond.  When 
the  hour  comes  —  and  come  it  will  —  that  Fame 
will  be  but  the  herald  of  immortality,  and  her  as 
pirant  mounts  up  with  his  thoughts  yet  beyond  the 
earth  to  the  golden  portals  of  heaven,  then,  in 
deed,  the  sum  of  human  perfection  will  be  attained. 
This  is  the  object  of  my  mission,  —  then  my  hour 
will  come,  my  task  be  ended,  and  the  wand  fall 
from  the  hand  that  has  wielded  it  for  centuries." 

"  Angel  of  bliss  !  I  will  henceforth  follow  thee 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  !  I  will  take  heed  to  thy 
words  as  they  fall  from  thy  divine  lips.  Fame! 
thou  art  no  longer  a  dream,  glittering  and  beck- 


4 


28  THE   PLUME. 

oning,  but  to  deceive.  For  thy  smiles  my  heart 
thirsts,  and  all  my  happiness  is  centred  in  thee  ! 
Henceforth  what  is  wisdom,  what  is  goodness  or 
virtue,  but  thy  breath  and  thy  smile!  I  risk  my 
all  of  hope,  here  and  hereafter,  upon  thee!  Oth 
ers  have  taken  thee  to  their  bosom  as  a  bride  —  I 
would  be  cherished  in  thine  as  a  child." 

The  Genius  of  the  Library  waved  his  wand,  and 
a  vision  burst  upon  my  eyes  like  that  of  some  fairy 
palace  in  an  enchanted  grotto.  Streams  were 
seen  at  a  distance,  sparkling  and  beaming  in  the 
light,  on  whose  banks  the  Muses  reclined,  playing 
upon  their  harps  and  lyres.  Birds  warbled  their 
sweetest  notes  in  the  trees  that  waved  upon  the 
borders  of  the  stream.  The  alcoves  had  expand 
ed  and  spread  away  into  brilliant  columns  of  gold 
and  jasper,  and  the  myriads  of  books,  which  they 
once  contained,  were  seen  in  the  hands  of  the  liv 
ing  and  breathing  forms  who  composed  them  —  re 
clining  beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees,  or  walking, 
in  countless  multitudes,  along  the  paths  that  led 
to  the  bowers  of  the  muses,  leading  their  disciples 
by  the  hand.  Nearer  stood  Fame,  bright  as  an 
angel,  extending  her  scroll,  containing  in  golden 
characters  the  names  of  her  worshipers.  I  was 
about  to  record  my  name  among  the  rest,  as  she 
greeted  me  with  her  radiant  smile;  but  the  Genius 
pointed  back  through  a  long  vista,  which  I  had  not 
seen  before,  where  men  seemed  to  be  plodding 


DREAM  OF  THE  DYING  UNDYING  ONE.     29 

and  toiling  for  gain,  rubbing  the  sweat  from  their 
brow,  and  striving  for  that  splendid  and  deceptive 
bauble  —  wealth. 

"Go  back!"  said  he;  "go  back  to  the  world; 
you  must  be  tried  still  longer  —  and  if  you  are  not 
wanting  to  yourself,  then  welcome  to  our  retreat. 
But,  man!  remember  that  all  your  fond  desires  to 
be  remembered  and  applauded  among  men  are 
nought,  unless  they  are  akin  to,  and  spring  from, 
still  nobler  aspirations  for  immortality  beyond  the 
grave." 

So  saying,  he  waved  his  wand  once  more,  the 
scene  shifted,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  the  Library. 


DREAM  OF  THE  DYING  UNDYING  ONE, 

Pale  bends  the  student  o'er  the  page, 

Within  his  solitary  cell, 
Like  one  entranced,  and  heedeth  not 

The  deep  stroke  of  the  midnight  bell, 
The  summer  breeze,  with  lip  of  love, 

His  wan  and  sunken  cheeks  doth  kiss; 
But  not  eve's  soft,  delicious  breath, 

Can  woo  him  from  his  dreams  of  bliss ; 
It  parts  the  locka  with  sweet  caress, 

Upon  his  hot  and  aching  brow, 
But  ah !  with  all  its  wealth  of  balm, 

It  brings  no  life  or  healing  now. 
3* 


30  THE   PLUME. 

Burneth  the  student's  lamp  more  dim  — 

He  throws  the  magic  volume  by, 
And  turns,  as  if  some  vision  bright 

Had  caught  and  chained  his  eagle  eye. 
Sweet  smiles  are  playing  round  those  lips, 

Once  eloquent,  now  silent,  pale ; 
And  see !  hot  tears  his  cheeks  have  wet, 

And  told  the  feeble  scholar's  tale. 
O  say,  what  sprite  or  conjuror 

Hath  stole  into  the  dreamer's  cell, 
Who  thus  can  charm  his  eye  away 

From  the  old  book  he  loves  so  well  ? 
Why  those  bright  smiles  ? 

Has  Love,  young  Love, 

Revealed  her  dazzling  form  this  hour, 
Or  lulled  his  ear  with  witching  song, 

Spell-bound  his  thoughts  with  cunning  power  ? 
Has  Poesy,  with  magic  glass, 

Called  forms  from  other  worlds  than  this? 
And  are  his  smiles  sweet  signals  given, 

To  meet  them  in  their  bowers  of  bliss  ? 
Or  buried  is  the  scholar's  mind 

Far  within  the  shadowy  Past, 
Where  Fame,  upon  her  sculptured  urn 

First  rose  to  sound  her  trumpet  blast? 
Rove  with  the  godlike  Socrates 

His  thoughts,  or  Plato  the  divine  — 
In  Academia's  hallowed  shades, 

His  heart  gray  Wisdom's  holy  shrine  ? 
Where  Eloquence  lit  up  her  fires, 

And  young  Philosophy  her  page 


DREAM  OF  THE  DYING  UNDYING  ONE.     31 

Unrolled,  to  spread  the  glorious  truth  — 
To  beam  upon  an  after  age  — 

"  O    MAN,  THT    SOUL    SHALL    NEVER   DIE 

THE    LIGHT    WITHIN    THEE    NEJER    EXPIRE." 

Or  is  the  Muse  the  scholar's  lip 

Touching  with  Inspiration's  fire  ? 
Breathes  she  such  golden,  burning  thoughts, 

The  birthright  of  a  soul  like  his, 
As  waking  with  a  giant's  strength, 

From  her  long  sleep  of  centuries, 
The  godlike  mind  creates,  when  far 

Where  Nature's  mysteries  are  hid 
Glances  her  eagle-eye  through  Time, 

The  dews  of  ages  on  its  lid  ? 
Or  wrapt  in  glorious  vision  there, 

Sees  he  the  form  of  young  Romance, 
With  golden  scarf  and  silken  plume, 

Keeping  all  bright  her  hero's  lance  ? 
Whispers  she  words  so  magical, 

To  lure  him,  care-worn,  from  his  cell, 
To  the  red  field  of  bright  renown, 

To  hear  Death  peal  the  warrior's  knell  — 
To  listen  to  the  minstrel's  song 

Of  Love  and  Chivalry  —  and  see 
Young  Beauty,  with  her  jewelled  zone, 

Sweep  by  in  pride,  then  bend  the  knee 
And  weep  above  the  moss-grown  stone, 

That  marks  her  hero's,  lover's  grave, 
Where  once  she  heard  his  bugle-note, 

And  saw  his  silken  banner  wave. 
Tell  me,  gray  reader  of  the  mind, 

Who  solv'st  its  riddles,  thoughts  sublime,  — 


THE    PLUME. 

Dreams  he  of  these,  these  visions  bright, 
At  this  still,  lonely,  midnight  time? 

That  thus  his  soul,  this  blessed  hour, 
No  calm  mid  all  its  calmness  knows, 

Nor  thirsts  he  for  the  magic  page, 
Nor  seeks  hia  pillow's  sweet  repose  ? 

No!  —  FAME'S  enchanting  trump  hath  pealed 

Upon  his  ear  her  stirring  theme, 
Such  as  no  lore  of  deep  Philosophy, 

Young,  budding  Love's  first,  witching  dream- 
Poesy,  that  with  young  Romance 

To  Beauty's  ear  her  legend  tells, 
Can  bring  from  all  their  wondrous  stores, 

Or  summon  with  their  magic  spells. 
Scholar  entranced  !  O,  dost  thou  see 

Fame's  radiant  vision  passing  near  ? 
Dost  hear  her,  as  she  stoops  to  bless, 

And  chant  a  welcome  in  thine  ear  ? 

"  Young  student,  live,  when  eloquence 

JVb  more  shall  linger  on  those  lips, 
When  those  bright  eyes  shall  close  in  death, 

And  pale,  in  their  long,  last  eclipse ; 
When  mouldering  lies,  as  lie  it  must, 

Thy  godlike  form  beneath  the  sod. 
And  on  her  heaven-born  wings  thy  soul, 

Pure  one !  soars  upward  to  thy  God. 
Live !  live  !  till  Time  shall  be  no  more, 

And  Fame  drops  her  recording  pen  ; 
Live,  till  Eternity  begins, 

And  angels  take  it  up  again ! " 


DREAM  OF  THE  DYING  UNDYING  ONE.     33 

"Bride  of  my  soul !"  —  his  pale  lips  part  — 

"  Sweet  as  to  summer  rose  the  dew, 
Thy  voice  comes  to  my  spirit  now ; 

O,  peal  thy  silver  trump  anew ! 
Thy  music  on  my  ravished  ear 

Falls,  like  the  strains  of  bards,  whose  lyres, 
Still  trembling  with  entrancing  songs, 

Wake  in  all  hearts  their  purer  fires." 

Upon  the  walls  of  that  lone  cell, 

Lo  !  rays  celestial  burst  and  stream, 
Writing  in  golden  characters, 

Fulfillment  of  his  glorious  dream  — 
A  name  that  ne'er  shall  die  —  and  Fame, 

Of  that  poor  scholar's  world  the  queen, 
Stands  by  —  on  her  undying  scroll 

Blazons  it  bright,  and  smiles  serene. 


The  vision  passed.     O,  can  it  be 

A  dream,  wild  phantom  of  the  brain  ? 
And  will  he  wake,  to  struggle  on 

With  Penury,  and  Want,  and  Pain  ? 
Sweet  Night,  star-lit  and  beautiful ! 

Not  thee  the  dying  scholar  greets: 
His  broken  heart,  no  breeze  of  thine 

Can  heal,  with  all  its  wealth  of  sweats. 
No  mother's  tear,  no  sweet  bride's  kiss 

Doth  bless  him,  in  his  humble  home  ; 
God  help  thee  now  !    No  loved  one  bends 

Above  thee  in  thy  martyrdom. 
Awake !  awake ! 


34  THE   PLUME. 

Thy  dream  is  o'er ! 

And  Toil  and  Want  their  work  have  done ; 
Thy  book  thy  only  pillow  is, 
Poor  dying,  yet  undying  one! 

His  pale  lips  close  —  his  hands  are  clasped  — 
And  burns  the  dim  light  still  more  dim ; 

Nothing  within  the  wide,  wide  world, 
Hath  joy  or  sorrow  more  for  him. 

He  dies !  —  his  spirit's  eye  upturned 
Still  bright  to  its  celestial  goal  — 

He  dies !  He  dies !  — 

Nor  knew  that  Fame 

HlS  OWN  NAME  BLAZONED  ON  HER  SCROLL! 


TIME'S  DAY-BOOK  AND   LEDGER, 

Ah!   Time!   old  gray-beard!   take  a  chair — 

And  pray  be  seated,  where  you  are  — 

No  nearer,  if  you  please.    Let's  see 

How  matters  stand  'twist  you  and  me. — Old  Song. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  my  chamber,  before  a  com 
fortable  fire,  one  cold,  snappish  afternoon,  not  long 
ago,  I  insensibly  fell  into  that  state  c£  mental  and 
bodily  stupor,  quite  common  with  fat  gentlemen 
after  dinner,  when  one  is  puzzled  to  tell  whether 
he  is  asleep  or  awake.  I  seemed  to  be  vibrating 


TIME  S    DAY-BOOK   AND    LEDGER. 


35 


between  two  indistinct,  indefinite  sources  of  enjoy 
ment,  if  I  may  so  speak,  but  could  grasp  at  neith 
er.  It  had  been  a  hard  day  among  merchants,  and 
was  no  time  for  money  to  be  lying  idle.  A  note  in 
hand  was  worth  two  in  the  pocket.  Many,  as  full 
as  a  soaked  sponge  in  the  morning,  were  wrung 
dry  by  night.  I  was  blessing-  my  stars  that  I  was 
too  poor  to  be  one  of  these  —  for  there  are  times 
when  a  man  may  thank  God  for  his  poverty  as  well 
as  his  riches  —  and  looking  over  the  bills  and  ac 
counts,  with  which  my  table  was  covered,  of  every 
description,  from  demands  for  the  clothes  that  cov 
ered  my  body  and  the  books  that  ministered  to  my 
mind,  down  to  those  for  the  oats  upon  which  my 
horse  was  dining  in  the  stable.  They  were  all 
paid  and  receipted  in  due  form,  and  it  was  with  a 
sincerity  and  gratitude,  which  few  were  in  a  situa 
tion  to  experience,  that,  after  having  tied  them  with 
red  tape  into  bundles,  1  exclaimed,  aloud,  "Thank 
God!  I  am  rid  of  duns!  " 

"Not  so  fast,  not  so  fast,  Mr.  Snooks  !  "  said  a 
gruff  voice  behind  me. 

My  aw  fell,  my  hair  rose,  and  I  felt  an  inex 
pressible  terror  at  turning  my  head  either  to  the 
right  or  left. 

"Not  so  fast,  not  so  fast,  Mr.  Snooks!"  con 
tinued  the  same  terrific  and  horrible  voice,  in  a 
long-drawn  tone, — "Thank  God,  if  you  will,  when 
you  are  rid  of  me!" 


36  THE    PLUME. 

My  curtains  were  drawn,  and  the  room  almost 
dark;  and,  as  I  turned  my  head  towards  the  door 
—  Heavens!  what  an  unearthly  object  met  my 
gaze!  A  figure  of  small  size  had  entered  the 
room  and  was  still  in  some  kind  of  motion.  He 
neither  knocked  nor  passed  the  customary  saluta 
tion.  The  vision  was  too  indistinct  in  the  dark 
ness  for  me  accurately  to  ascertain  his  dress,  even 
if  my  amazement  would  have  permitted;  but  he 
seemed  to  be  clothed  in  tatters  of  a  dark  and 
shadowy  hue,  mouldering,  decaying,  and  filmy  as 
cobwebs,  as  if  he  had  just  arisen  from  one  of  the 
catacombs  of  the  Nile,  after  a  sleep  of  three  thou 
sand  years.  He  was  bent  almost  double,  and 
wore  a  long  and  bushy  beard,  as  white  as  snow,  that 
trailed  upon  the  floor.  The  lower  part  of  his  body 
seemed  encased  in  something  like  bronze,  and  his 
sandals  seemed  of  iron,  or  adamant;  and  yet  he 
moved  as  light  as  a  fawn.  I  thought  I  discovered 
something  like  wings,  at  his  sides;  but  what  sur 
prised  me  more  than  any  thing,  was,  that  he  bore 
on  his  back  two  immense  parchment-covered  and 
iron-clasped  folios,  nearly  as  large  as  the  door,  and 
almost  half  as  thick  as  they  were  long.  How  this 
strange  figure  found  his  way  into  my  chamber,  I 
know  not,  for  certain  I  am  that  the  door  was  locked 
on  the  inside;  and  how  he  moved  about  with  his 
huge  burden  without  upsetting  every  thing,  is  a 
mystery,  of  which  I  felt  no  disposition  to  attempt  a 


TIME'S    DAY-BOOK    AND    LEDGER.  37 

solution.     As  I  sat  gazing  and  wondering,  tramp, 
tramp,  he  went  about  the  room,  keeping  his  sharp 
eyes  turned  upon  me  all  the  while,  as  if  they  would 
wither  me  with  their  unearthly  gaze ;  and,  point 
ing  with  his  finger  to  the  huge  volemes,  beneath 
which  he  was  bending,  on  the  back  of  which  I  be 
held,  for  the  first  time,  in  large  characters,  the 
words  —  DAY-BOOK    and   LEDGER.      His   counte 
nance,  or  what  I  could  see  of  it,  wore  so  severe 
and  forbidding  an  expression,  as  to  defy  all  at 
tempts  at  speech.     He  still  pointed  to  his  burthen, 
and,  as  I  fancied,  was  narrowing  the  distance  be 
tween  us.     "Pray,  sir,"  said  I,  attempting  to  turn 
my  eyes  from  his,  and  speaking  in  an  almost  inau 
dible  voice  —  "  May  I  ask  your  name,  and  busi 
ness?  "     "Name!"  said  he,  and  he  was  nearly  a 
minute  pronouncing  the  word  —  "Name!  I  have 
as  many  different  names  as  there  are  nations  on 
the  earth,  —  ay,  as  there  are  men  in  those  nations, 
or   hairs   upon   your   head.     I  have  been  called 
Chronos,  Tempus,  and  a  million  other  names;  but 
I  am  best  known  to  you  as  TIME  —  call  me  Time. 
My  business  you  will  find  by  opening  these  books;" 
and  he  unpacked  the  folios  from  his  back,  and  laid 
them  on  the  floor.     I  had  a  very  little  recovered 
myself,  but  felt  no  more  like  doing  business  than 
I  should  after  having  had  a  tumble  down  the  cata 
ract  of  Niagara.     I  fancied  I  could  feel  his  cold 
and  withering  breath  as  he  spoke,  and  I  felt  chilled 

4 


38 


THE    PLUME. 


to  my  very  bones.     Time!  thought  I.     My  God! 

is  it  possible?     I  could  not  think  or  talk  straight. 

I  could  not  put  two  ideas  together,  even  if  I  had 

possessed  them  at  the  moment.     I  spoke  as  if  full 

of  courage,  but  1  cowered  and  trembled  in  his 

presence. 

"Pray — sir — Mr. — Time  —  pray,  take  a  chair. 

I  —  I  did  not  know  that   you    had    any  demands 

against  me." 

I  felt  the  big  drops  of  sweat,  cold  as  I  was, 

trickle  from  my  forehead. 

"Time  —  t-i-m-e  !  Has  my  time  come?"  I 
asked,  breathing  to  myself. 

"I  never  stop.  Stop!  why  should  I  —  when  I 
have  millions  to  overtake?  You,  vain  mortals, 
think  to  outstrip  me  in  the  race.  You  think  to  run 
away  from  me  as  from  a  bailiff  or  a  dun.  But  hide 
where  you  will,  I  will  be  there  too;  and  if  my  ac 
counts  and  my  reckonings  are  not  heeded,  before 
I  bring  them  all  to  the  earth  —  to  the  cold  prison- 
house  of  the  tomb  —  let  them  look  to  it  hereafter 
—  ay,  hereafter."  I  shuddered,  as  his  trembling 
voice  dwelt  on  the  last  words,  as  if  they  were  in 
tended  to  carry  a  terrible  import  to  the  soul. 

"Here,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  ponder 
ous  volumes  with  some  glittering,  flashing  instru 
ment  that  I  had  not  beheld  before  —  "  here  is  your 
account.  Look  over  my  books,  and  see  that  it  is 
right.  I  must  be  off.  I  have  many  debts  to  col- 


TIME'S    DAY-BOOK    AND    LEDGER.  39 

lect.  I  shall  call  at  four ;  we  must  then  have  a 
settlement,  and  well  will  it  be  for  you  if  I  am  in 
your  debt.  I  must  be  gone  —  and  yet,"  he  con 
tinued,  drawing  nearer,  "I  shall  be  with  you  when 
you  think  I  am  gone.  Remember,  at  four !  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to  my  watch,  on  the  ta 
ble,  which  told  the  hour  of  two;  but,  as  he  pro 
nounced  the  \vordfour,  the  hands  moved  in  a  sec 
ond  to  the  hour  of  four,  and  immediately  moved 
back  again  to  two.  I  saw  him  not.  He  was  gone; 
and  yet  I  feared  he  was  there.  I  saw  him  not; 
but  methought  1  heard  him  in  the  room. 

All  this  was  done  in  so  strange  and  mysterious 
a  manner,  and  this  unearthly  visitant  took  me  so 
completely  by  surprise,  that  it  was  some  moments 
before  I  could  recollect  where  I  was.  As  I  cast 
my  eyes  upon  the  decaying  embers  of  the  fire, 
strange  and  uncouth  forms  rose  there  upon  my 
vision,  flickered  and  disappeared  —  symbols  of  my 
hopes,  my  prospects,  and  my  resolutions.  "Has 
my  time  come?"  I  asked  myself.  I  seemed  to 
have  no  control  over  my  will,  my  thoughts,  or  my 
very  movements.  Terrors  innumerable  flitted  be 
fore  my  mind,  and  despair  seemed  to  have  settled 
upon  my  soul.  The  world  was  shut  out  from  my 
thoughts,  and  I  seemed  to  myself  for  a  moment  to 
be  the  only  creature  in  existence.  As  my  eyes 
wandered  here  and  there,  they  rested  upon  the  old 
mirror.  I  looked  the  image  of  stupor  and  amaze- 


40  THE    PLUME. 

ment.  My  hair  stood  out  like  bristles;  my  eyes 
were  wild  and  unsteady,  and  my  tongue  hung  out 
of  my  open  mouth  like  a  dog's,  panting  after  the 
hot  chase  is  ended.  But  O  !  as  the  dying  fire  illu 
mined  different  points  around  me,  the  books,  the 
curtains,  and  the  walls,  it  fell  brightly  upon  the 
name  of  one  volume,  and  seemed  to  light  it  up  with 
such  a  glory  as  riveted  my  gaze,  long  and  stead 
fast.  I  saw  written,  in  golden  letters,  upon  the 
opposite  wall,  the  words  —  THE  HOLY  BIBLE!  A 
ray  of  heavenly  hope  and  joy  darted  into  my  soul. 
A  thought  of  heaven  rose  up  from  the  unsettled 
and  troubled  musings  of  my  mind,  and  gleamed 
over  them  like  a  ray  from  God's  throne,  bearing 
order,  joy,  and  confidence  upon  its  wings.  Long 
did  my  eyes  rest  upon  those  golden  words ;  and 
quick  as  the  broken  heart  drinks  in  consolation 
and  hope  from  the  lips  of  eloquent  wisdom  and  di 
vine  communion,  did  the  founts  of  all  that  is  good 
in  me  open,  and  administer  life  to  my  thirsty  soul. 
What  springs,  which  the  cares  of  the  world  had 
almost  locked  up,  were  unsealed,  and  now  gushed 
up  in  this  hour  of  lost  hope  !  How  the  troubles  of 
the  moment  and  the  sadness  of  the  hour  press  down 
both  soul  and  body,  unless  the  clear  and  hidden 
springs  of  goodness  inlhe  heart  have  been  fed  and 
filled  up,  day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  by  the 
sweet  and  gentle  rains  and  dews  of  heaven! 

"Yes!  "  said  I,  as  my  thoughts  began  insensi- 


TIME'S   DAY-BOOK   AND    LEDGER.  41 

bly  to  speak  forth;  "yes,  true  it  is  —  Religion  is 
the  pure  and  undying  beacon-flame  of  the  soul,  that 
can  alone  guide  the  mariner  over  the  waters  of  life 
safely  to  heaven  and  to  his  God!  " 

My  watch  pointed  to  the  hour  of  three.  Was 
this  strange  being  in  the  room,  watching  my  mo 
tions,  and  prying  into  my  thoughts?  I  looked  not 
to  ascertain,  for  1  cared  not.  I  was  re-assured 
with  confidence;  but  it  was  a  confidence  as  differ 
ent  from  that  which  I  felt  before  the  appearance 
of  my  visiter,  as  the  ray  of  the  diamond  from  that 
of  an  expiring  taper.  Still  his  repeated  "Not  so 
fast  —  not 'so  fast!  thank  God,  if  you  will,  when 
you  are  rid  of  me!"  rung  like  a  warning  note  of 
alarm  in  my  ears.  I  proceeded  to  look  over  the 
Day-Book,  which  opened  at  my  touch  as  easily  as 
if  it  had  been  instinct  with  life  and  anticipated  my 
wishes.  As  well  acquainted  as  business  had  made 
me  with  books  for  many  years,  yet  I  confess  there 
was  something  so  ludicrous  to  me  in  the  idea  of 
making  people  DEBTORS  AND  CREDITORS  OF  TIME, 
that  my  gravity  would  frequently  relax  into  a  smile. 
And  then  the  various  items  that  were  put  down  in 
the  books  were  done  in  so  mercantile  a  fashion, 
and  yet,  withal,  sounded  so  oddly  to  my  ears,  that 
I  began  at  first  to  make  a  jest  of  what  was  in  good 
truth  no  very  jesting  matter.  Most  of  the  charac 
ters  were  so  blurred  and  worn,  and  written  in  so 
many  tongues,  dead  and  living,  forgotten  and  re- 

4* 


42  THE   PLUME. 

membered,  that  it  would  have  required  the  pres 
ence  of  a  representative  of  every  age  and  nation, 
that  ever  existed,  to  have  rendered  all  the  contents 
of  these  folios  perfectly  intelligible.     I  had  the  rep 
utation  in  my  younger  days  of  being  a  very  respec 
table  linguist;   but  there  were  thousands  of  words 
before  me,  at  reading  which  I  made  a  dead  stand. 
In  the  Day-Book  were  put  down  all  the  favors  that 
Time  had  granted  to  individuals  —  each  minute, 
hour,  day,  week,  and  year  of  their  existence;   and 
O!    what   a    fearful    array  of  these    was    written 
against  the  names  of  some !    The  accounts  of  those 
who  were  dead  were  crossed  by  two  large  and  full 
black    lines.     Noah  was  made    debtor   for  being 
carried  in  the  ark  safely  over  the  waters.     There 
were  to  be  seen  the  names  of  Socrates,  Plato,  and 
Aristotle,  made  debtors  to  SUNDRY  OPPORTUNITIES, 
and  credited  for  WISDOM;   Cleopatra  made  debtor 
for  BEAUTY,  with  hardly  an  item    to    her    credit. 
There  were  the  names  of  kings  and  their  para 
mours;    priests  and  their   wives;    cardinals   with 
their    favorites;    queens,  mistresses,  and    maids; 
knights,  squires,  and  gentlemen  of  every  degree; 
warriors,  and  the  historians  who    recorded   their 
names  on  their  pages;   poets,  popes,  and  poltroons; 
tavern-keepers,    dutis,    and    lawyers;    actors,  in 
triguers,  and  prime-ministers,  —  some  made  debt 
ors  for  success  in  battle;  some,  success  in  love; 
some,  success  in  politics;  some  for  health,  riches, 


A 

j~ 

TIME'S    DAY-BOOK    AND    LEDGER.  43 

children,  and  so  on,  from  the  alpha  to  the  omega 
of  the  book.  I  very  hastily  ran  over  the  Day- 
Book,  but  remember  that  I  was  struck  with  the 
idea,  that  Faust  was  not  the  first  book-maker,  if 
he  was  the  first  type  setter.  The  contents  of  the 
Ledger  were  more  startling  to  examine;  for  here 
the  creditor  and  debtor  sides  were  written  out  to 
gether,  and  a  balance  struck  in  most  cases  either 
in  favor  of  or  against  the  name  of  individuals. 
Here  I  observed  that  credit  was  given  to  great 
names,  which  the  world  had  slandered  and  abused; 
and  here,  too,  the  balance  was  struck  against 
some,  who  are  heroes  on  the  pages  of  history.  So 
different,  thought  I,  is  the  estimation  placed  upon 
them  by  Time  and  the  age  in  which  they  flourished. 
Few  are  great  who  are  not  the  objects  of  this  topsy 
turvy  reputation.  Fame  is  an  idle  jade,  that  will 
wag  her  tongue  to  a  man's  injury  as  well  as  to  his 
glory;  and  the  dishonor,  whether  momentary  or 
lasting,  that  she  suffers  to  tarnish  the  names  of  the 
great,  during  some  part  of  the  period,  in  which  they 
are  on  the  lips  of  men,  is  but  the  penalty  which 
they  are  compelled  to  pay  for  their  greatness. 
"Ah!  virtue  is  the  being  upon  whom  we  may  alone 
securely  rest  our  affections,  and  at  whose  breath 
dishonor  melts  away,  when  she  advances  to  settle 
upon  her  votary,"  1  exclaimed,  as  I  read  over  the 
names  of  martyrs,  and  of  those  meek  sufferers  who 
endured  all  things  for  the  Gospel  of  Peace. 


44  THE   PLUME. 

I  turned  with  fear  to  my  own  account  in  the 
Ledger,  for  it  was  growing  late,  and  began  to  look 
over  the  various  items,  wondering  and  absorbed 
in  thought.  I  observed  that  no  balance  was 
struck.  "Pray  Heaven,"  I  exclaimed,  "that  I 
may  get  rid  of  this  dun  as  easily  as  others." 

"  Well,  well!  to  business.  I  cannot  wait!"  ex 
claimed  the  figure  behind  me,  though  I  was  not 
aware  of  his  approach.  "  No  nearer!  if  you 
please,"  said  I,  as  1  saw  him  approaching  and 
shaking  his  white  head  almost  in  my  face —  "  No 
nearer!  It  wants  a  quarter  to  four,  by  my 
watch."  "It  is  four!  I  alone  have  the  true 
time,"  said  the  figure.  "Come!  Mr.  Snooks,  I 
have  waited  long  enough;  let  us  wind  up  our  af 
fairs  !  I  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf  for  you  in  my 
books."  I  was  not  now  so  completely  deprived  of 
all  presence  of  mind  as  before;  but  look  him 
straight  in  the  face  I  dared  not.  How  he  moved 
I  know  not ;  but  that  he  was  constantly  in  motion, 
though  I  could  not  now  perceive  it,  as  I  thought  I 
could  upon  his  first  appearance,  I  am  as  certain  as 
of  my  own  existence;  for  turn  my  eyes  which  way 
I  would,  they  were  sure  to  light  upon  his  moulder 
ing,  unearthly  garments,  or  upon  his  sallow, 
bronze-looking  countenance.  If  my  glances  shift 
ed  with  the  rapidity  of  thought,  they  were  sure  to 
meet  his  fixed  and  settled  gaze. 

"  Millions  have  been  summoned  to  their  last  ac- 


TIME'S    DAY-BOOK    AND    LEDGER.  45 

count,"  said  he,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "since  I  laid 
my  books  before  you.  I  have  traveled  over  the 
universe  since  then;  and  yet,  I  have  not  been  ab 
sent  from  your  chamber.  I  possess  the  power  of 
ubiquity.  Millions  have  been  summoned  away,  — 
ay,  and  millions  have  sprung  into  being,  whose 
names  are  to  be  written  in  my  books,  and  whose 
accounts  this  day  begin." 

As  he  spoke,  I  gazed  upon  him  with  an  earnest 
ness  that,  to  an  observer,  would  have  proved  the 
power  which  he  had  over  me.  Indeed,  I  felt  my 
interest  in  the  old  gentleman  increasing  each  mo 
ment,  and  began  to  desire  that  our  interview  might, 
by  some  possibility,  be  prolonged.  All  fear  that 
my  account  was  to  be  settled  forever-,  and  that  his 
books  were  to  be  closed  against  me  forever,  had 
vanished,  upon  listening  to  his  words  and  looking 
into  his  Ledger.  1  had  not,  therefore,  at  present, 
that  dread  and  stupor  upon  me,  which  I  have  men 
tioned  as  having  seized  me,  when  the  idea  flashed 
upon  my  mind,  that  at  four  I  was  to  be  summoned 
from  time  into  eternity.  No!  my  thread  of  life 
was  to  be  spun  on  still  farther,  and  not  snapped  in 
twain  at  the  very  next  stroke  of  Time.  I  there 
fore  addressed  my  visiter,  as  one  with  whom  I 
stood  well,  and  whose  favor  I  was  desirous  of  se 
curing. 

"At  any  moment  you  please,"  I  said,  "I  will 
look  over  your  Ledger  with  you.  I  am  young, 


46  THE   PLUME. 

though  my  years  are  almost  as  many  as  are  allot 
ted  to  man,  — and  you,  sir,  must  be  old.  May  1 
hope  that  so  aged  a  creditor  will  not  be  hard  with 
one  whose  years  are  but  a  point  to  his?" 

"As  you  are  ready,  I  will  not  press  the  matter. 
Others  would  have  reason  to  thank  God,  if  they, 
also,  could  say  they  were  ready,  when  I  call. 
Old!  call  you  me?  Ay!  when  the  Almighty  spoke 
creation  into  birth,  I  was  there.  Then  was  I 
born.  Mid  the  bloom  and  verdure  of  Paradise,  I 
gazed  upon  the  young  world,  radiant  with  celes 
tial  smiles.  I  rose  upon  the  pinions  of  the  first 
morn,  and  caught  the  sweet  dew-drops  as  they 
fell,  and  sparkled  on  the  bowers  of  the  garden. 
Ere  the  foot  of  man  was  heard  sounding  in  this 
wilderness,  I  gazed  out  upon  its  thousand  rivers, 
flashing  in  light,  and  reflecting  the  broad  sun,  like 
a  thousand  jewels,  upon  their  bosoms.  The  cata 
racts  sent  up  their  anthems  in  these  solitudes,  and 
none  was  here  to  listen  to  the  new-born  melody 
but  I!  The  fawns  bounded  over  the  hills,  and 
drank  at  the  limpid  streams,  ages  before  an  arm 
was  raised  to  injure  or  make  them  afraid.  For 
thousands  of  years  the  morning  star  rose  in  beauty 
upon  these  unpeopled  shores,  and  its  twin-sister 
of  the  eve  flamed  in  the  forehead  of  the  sky,  with 
no  eye  to  admire  their  rays  but  mine.  Ay  !  call 
me  old.  Babylon  and  Assyria,  Palmyra  and 
Thebes,  rose,  flourished,  and  fell,  —  and  I  beheld 


4- 

TIME'S    DAY-BOOK   AND   LEDGER.  47 

them  in  their  glory  and  their  decline.     Scarce  a 
melancholy  ruin  marks  the   place  of  their  exist 
ence;  but  when  their  first  stones  were  laid  in  the 
earth,  I  was  there!     Mid  all  their  glory,  splendor, 
and  wickedness,  I  was  in  their  busy  streets,  and 
crumbling  their  magnificent  piles  and  their  gor 
geous  palaces  to  the  earth.     My  books  will  show 
a  long  and  fearful  account  against  them.     I  con 
trol  the  fate  of  empires,  —  I  give  them  their  period 
of  glory  and  splendor;  but,  at  their  birth,  I  con 
ceal  in  them  the  seeds  of  death  and  decay.     They 
must  go  down,  and  be  humbled  in  the  dust,  — 
their  proud  heads  bowed  down  before  the  rising 
glories  of  young  nations,  to  whose  prosperity  there 
will  also  come  a  date,  and  a  day  of  decline.     I 
poise   my  wing   over  the  earth,   and   watch   the 
course  and  doings  of  its  inhabitants.     I  call  up  the 
violets  upon  the  hills,  and  crumble  the  gray  ruins 
to  the  ground.     I  am  the  agent  of  a  Higher  Pow 
er,  to  give  life  and  to  take  it  away.     I  spread  silk 
en  tresses  upon  the  brow  of  the  young,  and  plant 
gray  hairs  on  the  head  of  the  aged  man.     Dim 
ples  and  smiles,  at  my  bidding,  lurk  around  the 
lips  of  the  innocent  child,  and  I  furrow  the  brow 
of  age  with  wrinkles.     Old,  call  you  me?    ay,  but 
when  will   my  days  be  numbered?     When  will 
Time  end,  and  Eternity  begin?     When  will  the 
earth  and  its  waters  —  the  universe  be  rolled  up, 
and  a  new  world  commence  its  revolutions?     Not 

4- 


48 


THE   FLUME. 


till  He,  who  first  bid  me  begin  my  flight,  so  orders 
it.  When  His  purposes,  who  called  me  into  be 
ing,  are  accomplished,  then,  and  not  till  then,  — 
and  no  one  can  proclaim  the  hour,  —  I  too  shall 
go  to  the  place  of  all  living." 

His  manner  and  voice  were  so  different  from 
any  thing  I  had  before  observed  while  speaking, 
that,  for  a  moment,  I  gazed  upon  his  venerable 
form  with  wonder  and  admiration.  As  he  finished, 
he  called  my  thoughts  back  to  myself,  by  point 
ing,  in  the  open  Ledger,  to  the  different  items  that 
made  up  my  account.  My  name  was  written  in 
startling  characters;  and,  with  all  my  confidence, 
I  trembled  to  add  up  the  debit  and  credit  sides, 
lest  the  balance  should  go  against  me.  Who  ever 
had  a  bill  presented,  that  he  did  not  question  its 
correctness  in  some  part?  Not  I.  I  looked  over 
the  account,  making  observations  as  I  proceeded, 
as  I  would  have  done  in  any  case,  and  asking 
questions  that  were  promptly  answered.  There 
were  thousands  of  items  for  which  I  was  made 
debtor  to  him,  of  this  kind  —  "Dr.  to  Time  for 
opportunity,"  and  I  was  [glad  to  observe  that  I 
was,  in  most  cases,  credited  for  improving  them. 

"  What,"  said  I,  "  here  is  an  item  for  which  I 
am  made  debtor,  and  which  has  but  little  credit 
against  it, — item,  gray  hairs." 

"Why  should  you  be  credited,"  he  replied, 
"by  more  than  a  single  mite  of  true  wisdom?  " 


TIME  S   DAY-BOOK   AND   LEDGER. 


49 


"Have  I  not  learned  knowledge  of  the  world? 
Have  I  not  learned  the  uselessness  and  vanity  of 
all  worldly  things?  What,  but  these  gray  hairs, 
for  which  I  am  fairly  your  debtor,  has  given  me 
this  knowledge,  and  taught  me  to  raise  my  thoughts 
from  earth  to  heaven,  the  only  abode  of  true  hap 
piness  ?  Have  I  not  seen  the  faults  and  errors  of 
others,  and  profited  by  them?  Have  I  not  avoid 
ed  the  paths  in  which  they  have  been  lost  ?  Have 
not  their  losses  proved  my  gain,  and  shall  I  have 
no  credit  therefor?  You  have  given  me  gray 
hairs;  but  you  have  taken  from  me  the  soft  locks 
of  innocent  youth.  If  I  am  gray,  1  have  seen 
trouble,  —  and  is  the  lesson  I  have  learned  to  be 
of  no  use  to  me?  Have  others  profited  as  well  by 
their  white  locks,  as  I  have  by  mine?  Are  not 
some  gray-headed  men  old  in  vice?  " 

"Every  gray  hair  upon  your  head  should  have 
brought  you  wisdom,  instead  of  but  one  in  a  hun 
dred.  You  have  had  lessons  set  before  you,  but 
have  failed  always  to  draw  that  improvement  and 
instruction  from  them,  which  alone  are  the  foun 
dation  of  true  wisdom.  I  robbed  you  of  your 
youthful  locks,  but  it  was  that  you  might  be  ma 
tured  in  mind.  Rely  upon  your  own  powers,  and 
lean  not  for  support  upon  the  falling  bodies  of  oth 
ers?  " 

"  Ay,  but  is  it  no  merit  in  me  that  I  have  avoid 
ed  the  errors  into  which  others  have  fallen,  and 


50  THE   PLUME. 

though  my  loss  is  not  their  gain,  individually  con 
sidered,  yet  is  it  not  to  be  accounted  the  greater 
merit  to  have  gone  right,  where  so  many  have 
gone  wrong?  " 

"True,  Man!  in  that  you  have  shown  wisdom, 
and  for  that  I  have  given  you  ample  credit,  as  you 
observe.  Yet,  wisdom  is  so  costly  and  precious 
a  jewel,  that  but  a  ray  sent  forth  from  it  out-shines 
all  the  concentrated  beams  of  pride  and  worldly 
glory.  You  have  passed  through  troubles,  and 
your  spirit  has  not  been  broken  down,  but  in  the  is 
sue  elevated  and  exalted.  If  every  opportunity,  for 
which  you  are  my  debtor,  has  not  been  improved 
as  it  might  have  been — yet  you  have  done  well, 
though  others  may  have  done  better.  Moments 
have  been  lost,  and  you  must  have  been  more  than 
mortal  not  to  have  suffered  some  to  pass  by  unim 
proved;  and  fortunate  is  it  for  you  at  this  hour 
that  these  were  in  your  more  juvenile  days." 

"  You  took  from  me  the  wife  of  my  bosom  —  O! 
what  can  I  have  gained  by  that  loss?  " 

"  I  gave  her  to  thee,  and  I  took  her  away.  So 
far,  we  are  even.  But  you  have  been  the  gainer. 
Look!  have  I  not  passed  much  to  your  credit  on 
that  score?  Were  not  your  thoughts,  before  I 
called  her  away,  centred  on  the  earth,  and  did  I  not 
raise  them  to  heaven?  What  possession  of  earth, 
though  but  little  inferior  in  beauty  to  angels,  will 
you  weigh  against  an  inheritance  in  the  realms  of 


TIME'S    DAY-BOOK   AND   LEDGER.  51 


bliss,  where  you  will  again  meet  your  partner?  I 
stole  her  from  your  bosom,  it  is  true;  but  did  I  not 
plant  principles  there,  which  have  since  sprung  up 
and  imparted  a  new  existence  to  your  soul  —  prin 
ciples  that  will  outlive  the  perishing  tabernacle  of 
clay  which  encloses  them?  Sorrow  you  have 
known  by  this  bereavement;  but  you  came  forth 
from  the  trial  like  gold  from  the  furnace." 

"  But  you  might  have  spared  my  only  boy,  just 
budding  into  loveliness  and  beauty?" 

"Blame  not  my  actions;  I  do  the  will  of  One 
higher  than  us  all.  He  was  cut  down  ere  the 
temptations  of  the  world  lured  him  astray  from  the 
paths  of  virtue  —  ere  the  blast  of  its  impurities  had 
sullied  his  pure  spirit.  You  are  a  gainer  by  these 
losses,  and  I  have  given  you  much  credit  in  my 
Ledger  on  their  account." 

"You  have  temptations  innumerable  against 
me;  — it  is  like  lending  me  false  coin." 

"Yes!  "  he  replied,  "and  you  may  be  thank 
ful  that  you  have  resisted  so  many  of  them  —  and 
enabled  me  to  give  you  so  much  credit  therefor. 
They  are  no  base  coin,  but  the  true  touchstones 
of  the  soul — the  tests  of  its  purity.  In  resisting 
these  consists  true  merit  —  in  such  curbings  of  the 
spirit,  in  such  checking  of  the  weak  part  of  your 
nature,  you  have  come  off  conqueror  many  times 
and  oft,  and  in  this  have  shown  yourself  superior 
to  thousands  who  have  borne  the  names  of  philos- 


52 


THE    PLUME. 


ophers  and  sages.  I  have  given  you  chances  to 
err,  but  you  turned  away  from  them;  and,  instead 
of  you  being  my  debtor,  I  have  become  yours. 
True  greatness  consists  as  much  in  avoiding  er 
rors,  that  have  been  committed  by  men  since  the 
world  began,  as  in  doing  great  actions." 

"  You  took  from  me  all  my  fortune  — the  accu 
mulated  earnings  of  years  of  toil,  labor,  and  suf 
fering." 

"Suffering!  Honor  not  with  that  name  the 
rubs  which  you  get  in  the  war  for  riches.  You 
were  reduced  from  affluence  to  poverty:  was  not 
your  soul  wrapped  up  in  the  love  of  gain?  Were 
not  riches  your  god  —  your  idol?  Did  you  not 
often  take  from  others,  that  you  might  enrich  your 
self?  I  gave  you  an  opportunity  to  learn  a  lesson 
of  prudence  and  wisdom;  but  it  passed  by  unim 
proved.  You  went  on,  from  day  to  day,  adding 
to  your  almost  exhausted  stock  —  and  had  I  not 
taken  from  you  what  was  dearer  even  than  life, 
you  would  now  tremble  at  my  account  against 
you." 

"I  am  content,"  I  exclaimed;  "you  have  dealt 
fairly  with  me.  Strike  the  balance;  if  it  goes 
against  me,  I  am  undone  —  the  fault  be  at  my  own 
door!  " 

"  It  is  done !  —  I  thought  it  not ;  I  am  your  debt 
or  to  a  very  small  amount!  " 

"I  then  am  the  Dun!     Pray,  take  your  own 


-4- 

THE  DYING  CHILD  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY.   53 

time, — if  you  please;  pass  the  balance  to  my 
credit  on  the  new  page." 

"No!  I  must  begin  again  square.  Here  is  my 
note,  payable  in  Eternity.  When  presented,  I 
will  be  there  to  take  it  up.  It  is  for  a  small  sum; 
but  by  the  time  it  becomes  due,  when  you,  and  the 
nation  of  which  you  are  a  part,  are  no  more,  it  will 
be  trebled,  billions  of  times,  and  out-value  all  the 
possessions  of  this  world." 

So  saying,  he  shut  up  his  Day-Book  and  Ledg 
er,  clasped  and  shouldered  them,  and  vanished 
like  a  ghost  at  twilight." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  TO  THE  DYING  CHILD, 

[  The  incident,  in  which  the  subjoined  lines  had  their  origin, 
conveys  to  the  heart  one  of  those  beautiful  and  touching  lessons, 
which  are  sometimes  vouchsafed  to  us,  as  if  to  remind  us  of  the 
close  and  sisterly  communion  which  exists  between  the  inno 
cent  child  upon  earth  and  the  spirits  of  the  better  land.  Their 
eloquent  teachings  will  not  be  lost,  if  they  reconcile  parents  to  the 
early  loss  of  the  little  cherubs,  who  are,  as  it  were,  loaned  them 
but  for  a  season,  and  admonish  them  not  to  mourn  too  bitterly  the 
return  of  a  wandering  child  of  heaven  to  its  celestial  home.  A  few 
days  before  the  illness  of  the  little  one,  to  whom  reference  is  had, 
says  the  writer  of  the  obituary,  a  butterfly,  very  large,  and  of  sin 
gular  beauty,  was  found  hovering  in  the  room  where  she  was  at 
play,  quite  fascinating  her  with  its  graceful  motions  and  brilliant 
colors,  and  after  being  several  times  thrust  out,  flying  back  at  last, 
and  resting  on  the  infant's  forehead.  For  a  moment,  the  beauti 
ful  insect  remained  there,  expanding  its  brilliant  wings,  to  the 


54  THE    PLUME. 

great  delight  of  the  child,  then  suddenly,  as  if  it  had  accomplished 
its  purpose,  took  its  departure,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  The 
child  sickened  ;  and,  again,  but  a  few  hours  before  her  death,  the 
butterfly  was  seen  fluttering  and  seeking  entrance  at  the  window 
of  her  chamber.  It  matters  not,  to  our  faith,  whether,  as  the  in 
nocent  superstition  of  another  land  would  tell  us,  there  was  a  mes 
sage  thus  borne  from  the  holy  world,  that  this  young  life  was 
needed  there,  and  must  be  taken  away.  But  at  least,  while  we 
remember  that  this  frail  insect  is  the  emblem  not  only  of  a  fleeting 
existence,  but  of  a  resurrection  from  a  narrow  and  humble  life  to 
a  higher  and  a  brighter,  we  may  find  in  the  incident  an  illustration 
that  shall  teach  us  the  Christian  lesson  which  can  never  reach 
us  too  powerfully  ;  —  that  the  spirit,  of  which  we  witness  the  first 
unfolding  here,  has  a  freer  and  nobler  expansion  in  a  home  where 
our  love,  though  not  our  care,  can  follow  it.] 

Sweet  child  !  but  yesterday  — 

When  the  glad  breeze  swept  o'er  the  summer  lawn  — 
How  blithely  thou  didst  chase  me,  far  away, 

Fleet  as  the  bounding  fawn. 
E'en  now  I  hear  thy  joyous  laugh  ring  out  — 
I  see  thy  smile,  as  thou  dost  trip  about 

"I'll  have  thee !  "  —  thou  didst  sing, 
As  my  gay  pinions  lured  thee  from  the  door  — 
"  Light  now  upon  my  hand,  bright,  tiny  thing ! 

And  roam  the  fields  no  more." 
With  mirth  worn  out,  thou  slept  beneath  the  tree, 
And  I  watched  thee,  dreaming  of  heaven  and  me. 

Sweet  was  thy  slumber,  child ! 
Upon  that  mossy  couch  —  oh !  sweet  thy  dream, 
I  lit  upon  thy  sunny  brow ;  as  honey  wild 

Thy  breath  was  sweet,  or  thyme. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE  DYING  CHILD.   55 

"Father,  who  art  in  heaven"  —  thy  lips  did  part, 
As  thine  infant  prayer  came  gushing  from  thy  heart 

But  the  cold  damp  of  earth 
Shaded  thy  spirit,  —  chilled  thy  little  hand. 
They  bore  thee  to  thy  home  —  no  more  thy  mirth, 

Jewel  of  the  little  band! 

Flashed  from  thy  lip,  thine  eye.     Thy  mother's  breast 
Thy  dying  pillow  is  —  thy  home  of  rest! 

There,  sweet  child !  reposing, 
I  guard  thee  now.     I  come,  ere  thou  dost  die, 
To  mark  the  beauty  of  thine  eye,  just  closing, 

And  catch  that  last  sweet  sigh. 
I  loved  thy  mirth,  but,  dying,  more,  oh,  more, 
That  cherub  smile  thy  lips  that  lingers  o'er. 

From  shrub  to  floweret  driven, 

Like  thee,  I've  roamed  the  fields,  nor  dreamed  of  earth, 
My  brilliant  wings  have  fanned  the  air  of  heaven ; 

I  watched  thy  gentle  birth 

In  the  bright  realms  of  bliss.     To  lead  thee  right, 
I  took  the  form  most  lovely  to  thy  sight. 

But  thou  art  summoned  home ! 
And  I,  thine  angel,  wait  to  bear  thee  back  ; 
Thy  gentle  spirit  I  receive.     Sweet  child,  come ! 

See,  on  our  homeward  track 

Angels'  smiles  are  beaming.     See !  near  the  THRONE, 
The  sainted  spirits  welcome  thee,  loved  one. 

Hark !  thy  last  breath  and  sighs 
Upon  thy  mother's  bosom  !     Thou  dost  but  sleep, 
And  shalt  awake  again  in  Paradise. 


56  THE   PLUME. 

Then  who,  oh  who,  would  weep  ? 
Rise !  rise !  my  wings  shall  bear  thy  spirit  on  — 
To  earth  a  child  is  lost — to  heaven  a  cherub  won ! 

The  moss  rose,  near  thy  bed, 
Is  mine,  emblem  of  one  so  pure  and  fair ; 
Its  leaves  now  shrink,  its  stalk  is  dying  —  dead! 

And  scarce  it  scents  the  air. 
Thy  vital  spark,  sweet  child,  is  linked  with  it, 
As  dies  the  rose  —  thy  soul  doth  homeward  flit 

Come  home,  oh  spirit  dear ! 

I've  watched  thy  budding  bloom,  I've  caught  thy  sigh, 
Thy  jocund  laugh  upon  my  wings,  to  bear 

As  an  offering  on  high. 
And  now,  my  mission  done,  I  soar  away, 
To  bathe  my  pinions  in  celestial  day. 


TO    A    MINIATURE. 

Eyes  that  have  seen  thee,  lady,  say  thou  art 
Lovely  in  feature  as  in  mind  and  heart; 
If  so,  —  no  smile  of  thine  e'er  beamed  on  me,  — 

Zephyrs  be  laden  with  my  love  to  thee ! 

Angels  guard  thee  in  thy  virgin  bloom, 

Thy  slumbers  bless,  and  from  their  wings  perfume 
Ever  shed  o'er  thee,  in  thy  young  love's  dreams. 

Though  we  have  never  met,  in  thee,  it  seems 

As  if  the  idol  of  my  heart  I  meet ; 


THE    ANTLERS.  57 

Go  on  thy  happy  way  —  Heaven  bless  that  sweet, 
Innocent  face,  and  angel  mien  of  thine, 

Lingering  near  me,  as  if  they  once  were  mine; 

Each  day,  like  doves,  some  sweeter  charm  or  grace, 
Shall  nestle  in  thy  heart  and  thy  sweet  face. 


THE    ANTLERS, 

[  In  a  beautiful  village,  some  forty  miles  from  Boston,  is  a  pair  of 
antlers  fastened  to  a  post,  once  a  flourishing  tree,  at  the  intersec 
tion  of  two  roads.  They  were  placed  there  many  years  ago,  by 
an  Indian  Chief,  one  of  the  last  of  his  tribe,  who  had  pursued  the 
deer  from  sunset  till  sunrise  the  next  morning,  and  finally  shot 
her  a  few  yards  distant  from  the  tree  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
just  as  she  had  leaped  in,  almost  exhausted  and  unable  to  fly.  from 
the  fatigue  of  the  chase.  Tradition  also  says  that  his  own  bones 
were  laid  beneath  the  tree  upon  which  he  fastened  h&r  antlers.] 

It  was  one  broad  and  green  domain, 

Which  white  man's  foot  had  never  trod ; 
No  pilgrim's  blood  had  flowed,  to  stain 

The  verdure  of  the  wind-kissed  sod. 
The  giant  oaks  their  branches  swung, 

To  winds  that  swept  through  forest  aisles ; 
The  Indian  lurked  the  trees  among, 

Or  crept  along  the  rock  defiles, 
And  narrow  paths  wound  through  the  wood, 
Where  here  and  there  a  wigwam  stood. 
The  black  duck,  on  his  glossy  wing, 

Sailed  the  calm  blue  water  over, 
And  o'er  the  marsh  in  airy  ring, 


58  THE   PLUME. 

Wheeled,  at  morn  and  eve,  the  plover. 
Along  the  green  and  lovely  lawn 

Bounded  forth  most  playfully, 
To  river's  brink,  the  agile  fawn, 

To  bathe  her  graceful  limbs,  as  free 
As  if  she  feared  no  arrow  true 
Would  harm  her  in  those  waters  blue. 
The  partridge,  from  her  covert  green, 

Led  forth  her  gay  and  chirping  brood, 
And  there  the  rabbit  shy  was  seen 

Upon  her  form ;  the  solitude 
Of  verdant  plain  and  woodland  hill 

Was  yet  unbroken  by  the  tread 
Of  busy  man ;  as  silent,  still, 

As  some  lone  city  of  the  dead  — 
Save  when  the  eagle,  from  his  warm 

And  beetling  eyrie  from  on  high, 
Bade  proud  defiance  to  the  storm, 

And  screamed  his  notes  in  loud  reply ; 
Or  when  the  Indian  war-song,  heard, 
Aroused  from  his  high  perch,  the  bird, 
Or  wild  beast  from  his  noon-day  lair, 
To  cower  in  fright  and  terror  there. 

Young  morning's  lids  are  opening  now, 

Upon  that  lawn,  with  dewdrops  wet, 
And  all  the  mountain's  rocky  brow 

Sparkles,  as  if  with  jewels  set 
The  sunlight  streams  along  the  sky, 

And  fragrant  dell,  and  dancing  river; 
On  dewy  lawn  and  oak-tree  high 

Its  golden  light  is  seen  to  quiver, 


THE   ANTLERS.  59 

O'er  every  shrub  the  radiance  stealing ; 

And  as  the  leaves  upon  the  trees 
In  the  first  hreath  of  morning  stir, 

The  landscape  far  beyond  revealing, 
The  scene  is  like  some  paradise, 

Than  earthly  garden  lovelier. 

Lo !  panting  by  that  silver  stream, 

The  antlered  fawn  is  standing  now ; 
All  night  —  since  his  last  setting  beam 

The  sun  threw  on  that  mountain's  brow, 
And  eve's  dim  shadows  came  —  no  green 

Retreat  had  she  to  cool  her  breast ; 
The  Indian  on  her  track  hath  been, 

Giving  no  peaceful  evening  rest. 
She  pants  —  those  nimble  limbs,  whose  spring 
Was  rapid  as  the  lightning's  wing, 
No  longer  bound  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
As  wafts  the  hunter's  cry  the  gale  ; 
Full  many  a  mile,  o'er  wood  and  plain, 
As  morn  night's  veil  doth  lift  again, 
The  foot-prints  on  the  dewy  grass 
Are  seen,  where  that  fleet  fawn  did  pass ; 
And  at  the  moonlit  brook  and  rill, 
The  hunter  close  upon  her  still, 
Is  her  light  track,  ere  she  did  spring, 
Then  hear  far  back  their  waters  sing. 
As  she  bounds  on  through  grassy  dell, 
Whose  sweet  retreats  she  knows  so  well, 
She  stops  not,  for  the  Indian's  tread 
Nearer  is  heard,  and  now  hath  sped 
His  bolt  from  out  the  leafy  trees, 


60  THE    PLUME. 

While  she  far  off  snuffs  in  the  breeze ; 
O'er  hill  and  plain,  with  rapid  pace 
Bounding,  she  finds  no  resting-place, 
Till  now,  as  drinking  the  cool  wave, 
She  fears  the  current's  might  to  brave  ; 
And  what  but  weariness  could  keep 

Her  limbs  chained  to  that  fatal  place  — 
From  trusting  to  the  rushing  deep 

Her  form  of  loveliness  and  grace  ? 
She  dreads  into  its  whirling  flood 

To  plunge  once  more  to  reach  the  plain, 
Lest  the  winged  arrow  with  her  blood 

The  silver-leaping  tide  should  stain. 
Why  turns  her  eye  to  woodland  glen  ? 
Why  start  at  rustling  leaves,  as  when 
The  wild  beast  rushes  from  his  lair, 
To  spring  upon  his  victim  there  ? 
Hears  she  the  Indian  on  his  path, 

Creeping  along  with  stealthy  tread, 
The  well-known  sound  that  warning  hath, 

And  draws  the  arrow  to  its  head  ? 

One  plunge 

That  arrow  cuts  the  air, 
And  quivers  in  its  victim  there, 
Drinking  the  life-blood  from  her  breast ; 
And  ere  the  hunter's  foot  hath  pressed 
The  river's  bank,  that  fawn  hath  died, 
Mingling  her  warm  blood  with  the  tide. 

But  many  years  have  fled  since  then, 
And  white  men's  feet  have  trod  that  glen. 
Many  an  autumn,  on  that  plain, 


SONG  OF  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWERS.   61 

The  harvest  ripe  of  golden  grain 
Has  been  garnered,  and  that  stream, 
From  dawn  till  day's  last  golden  beam, 
Has  borne  upon  its  silver  tide 
Many  a  noble  ship  in  pride, 
Where  red  men,  in  their  light  canoe, 
Shot  swiftly  o'er  those  waters  blue. 
Now  not  a  relic  of  the  race 
Is  seen  upon  that  lovely  place, 
Save  when  the  ploughman,  with  his  spade, 
Turns  up  a  bone  where  they  were  laid. 
Beneath  yon  tree  is  mouldering  now 
His  noble  frame,  who  drew  that  bow ; 
Above  his  grave  on  that  sweet  lawn, 
Hang  the  broad  antlers  of  the  fawn  ; 
But  not  a  deer  upon  the  green 
And  blooming  forest-fields  is  seen ; 
They're  gone ;  —  the  hunter  and  his  game 
From  woodland  path  —  their  fate  the  same. 


SONG  OF  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWERS, 

Sung  at  the  Horticultural  Festival,  in  Boston,  September  16,  1842. 

I  rose  mid  Eden's  virgin  bowers, 

And  caught  upon  my  wings 
Your  rosy  tints,  celestial  flowers ! 

That  bloomed  beside  her  springs. 
The  golden  sun  his  new-born  light, 

Shed  through  the  perfumed  air ; 
No  foot  but  mine,  at  morn  or  night, 

Did  press  the  flower-cups  there ; 
6 


62  THE   PLUME. 

And  morning's  dew-drops,  as  they  fell, 
And  sparkled  in  her  bowers, 

Imaged,  in  each  bright  and  tiny  cell, 
The  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

And  thou,  sweet  bird  of  Paradise ! 

Dancing  from  spray  to  spray, 
Who,  in  the  soft  and  silver  light, 

*  Singest  the  livelong  day  — 
Thou  wooedst  me,  with  thy  strain  of  love, 

From  flowery  lawn  to  hill, 
And  to  my  song  —  as  wreaths  I  wove  — 

Gay  danced  each  laughing  rill. 
Thy  music,  on  the  freighted  breeze, 

That  kissed  th'  Elysian  bowers, 
Entranced,  amid  young  Eden's  trees, 

The  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

And  when,  in  that  enchanting  hour, 

I  saw  thee  soar  away, 
I  rose  with  thee  from  Eden's  bower, 

Into  celestial  day: 
I  flew  o'er  earth,  her  flowers  to  cull, 

And  sighed  for  Eden's  bliss, 
Among  the  bright  and  beautiful 

Whose  cheeks  the  soft  winds  kiss ; 
Sailing  on  the  delicious  breeze, 

I  heard  them  in  their  bowers  ; 


*  "Joyous  the  birds,  fresh  gales  and  gentle  airs 
Whispered  it  to  the  woods,  and  from  their  wings 
They  rose,  Rung  odors  from  the  spicy  shrub, 
Disputing  till 'the  amorous  bird  of  night, 
Sung  spousal."  — Paradise  Lost. 


SONG   OF   THE   ANGEL   OF    THE   FLOWERS.        63 

Each  daughter  hailed,  beneath  the  trees, 
The  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

And  as  we  sung  a  sad  adieu 

To  our  sweet  Eden  clime  — 
I  heard  angelic  voices  chant 

A  farewell  song,  sublime. 
I  saw  them  wave  their  hands,  and  lean 

Upon  their  harps  the  while ; 
I  wept  —  as  closed  the  golden  gates 

Upon  their  heavenly  smile ; 
I  turned  away,  and  on  my  wings 

Caught  the  light  of  Eden's  bowers, 
And  far  I  heard  their  farewell  chant, 

To  the  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

Downward  to  earth  I  winged  my  way, 

And  wooed  the  laughing  girls,  — ^ 
I  wove  my  roses  in  their  cheeks, 

Their  lips  and  sunny  curls. 
The  lily's  white,  the  rose's  blush  — 

I  wove  them  into  one ; 
I  braided  in  their  hair  the  flush 

Of  the  golden,  setting  sun. 
Me  pressing,  till  our  hearts  were  one, 

They  sung,  those  blissful  hours  ; 
And  pledged  their  love  forevermore, 

To  the  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

I  saw  one  take  her  bridal  vow, 

A  rose  upon  her  breast  — 
She  blushed,  as  to  her  bosom's  shrine 

Her  lover's  hand  she  pressed. 


64  THE   PLUME. 

I  marked  the  graceful  creature's  tear, 

As  she  gave  her  heart  away, 
And  crushed,  in  that  embrace,  the  rose 

Upon  her  breast  that  lay. 
Its  fragrance  breathed  from  her  sweet  lips, 

As  she  kissed  him  in  her  bowers, 
And  welcomed  to  their  green  retreat, 

The  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

Another,  in  her  radiant  bloom, 

I  watched  upon  the  green,  — 
She  bent  above  the  church-yard  tomb, 

And  wept  for  one  within. 
She  plucked  the  moss-rose  from  her  breast, 

And  placed  it  on  his  bier  — 
And,  as  her  low-voiced  prayer  she  breathed, 

I  caught  that  mother's  tear. 
But,  as  she  turned  in  grief  away, 

And  sought  her  cypress  bowers, 
She  touched  her  lute,  in  plaintive  strain, 

To  the  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

I  saw  a  rosy  child  at  play, 

His  laughing  dimples  hid 
Beneath  his  silken  curls,  —  his  eyes, 

Like  jewels  of  Giamschid. 
He  chased  the  gorgeous  butterfly 

From  fragrant  shrub  to  tree  — 
He  plucked  the  wild  rose  from  its  stalk, 

And  laughed  with  boyish  glee  ; 
The  rose  no  thorn  shall  bear  for  him, 

In  youth's  unclouded  hours  — 


SONG    OF   THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   FLOWERS.        65 

She  fanned  the  cherub  with  her  wing,  — 
Sweet  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

And  oh !  amid  that  lovely  throng, 

Two  sisters,  in  sweet  glee, 
Were  singing,  as  they  tripped  along 

O'er  blooming  lawn  and  lea. 
They  plucked  the  daisy  in  their  path, 

The  violet  from  its  bed, 
And  strewed  them  where  a  brother  lay, 

To  rest  his  aching  head. 
He  kissed  them  for  the  grateful  boon  — 

So  sweet  in  his  sick  hours, 
And  bade  them  cling,  with  sister's  love, 

To  the  Angel  of  the  Flowers. 

I  gazed  at  Beauty,  as  she  sighed, 

And  left  her  jewelled  throne, 
To  twine  gay  roses  mid  the  pearls 

That  clasped  her  virgin  zone. 
Queen-like  she  trod  —  her  fairy  feet 

Tripping  to  songs  of  mirth  ; 
The  south  wind  dallied  with  her  cheeks, 

Bright  creature  of  the  earth ! 
I  pressed  her  lily  hand  in  mine, 

As  we  sought  the  rosy  bowers, 
I  breathed  my  perfumes  to  her  lips, 
And  WOMAN,  since,  herself  hath  been 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  FLOWERS.* 

*  This  song  supposes  that,  at  the  creation  of  Eden,  the  guardianship 

of  its  flowers,  —  they  being,  as  it  were,  the  very  breath  of  heaven, — 

was  entrusted  to  a  special  angel.    While  watching  them,  she  is  lured 

from  her  bowers  by  the  "  amorous  descant "  of  one  of  the  golden- 

6* 


66  THE    PLUME. 


THE    DEVIL    AMONG    THE    BOOKS, 

"In  faith,  a  resurrection  of  the  damned 

And  mouldering  volumes  buried  in  the  dust; 

They  do  move  and  talk  like  those  who  made  them  — 

And  the  brain's  offspring  as  gently  roar  you 

As  sucking  calf  or  bleating  sheep,  whose  hides 

Are  laid  upon  their  backs,  encasing  them, 

On  which  are  gilded  their  baptismal  names." — Old  Play. 

In  one  of  the  principal  streets  of  a  great  me 
tropolis,  whose  borders  enclose  many  a  beautiful 
form  and  patriotic  heart,  and  whose  environs, 
graced  with  all  that  is  lovely  and  enchanting  in 
the  natural  world,  have  been  long  consecrated  by 
deeds  of  valor  and  undying  fame,  there  might  have 

plumaged  warblers  with  which  Milton  has  peopled  the  garden  of  Para 
dise.  Flying  over  the  earth,  she  gazes  upon  all  the  most  beautiful  and 
lovely  visions  which  it  presents.  The  young  bride,  wreathed  with  bridal 
flowers  —  the  weeping  mother,  who  casts  a  rose  into  the  coffin  of  her  de 
parted  spouse  —  the  sisters,  who  scatter  flowers  in  the  sickroom  of  their 
brother  —  the  sporting  child,  who  plucks  the  wild  rose  in  his  play  —  all 
these  win  her  love  and  admiration  ;  but  it  is  not  until  the  personification 
of  all  that  is  beautiful  and  lovely  in  woman  presents  itself  to  her  vision, 
that  she  is  enticed  to  touch  her  foot  upon  the  earth.  The  Angel  of  the 
flowers  no  sooner  presses  her  perfumed  lips  to  those  of  the  dazzling 
Beauty,  and  clasps  her  lily  hand  in  her  own,  than  the  celestial  visitant 
vanishes  into  the  ambrosial  perfume  that  freights  the  air.  From  that  mo 
ment  woman  herself  takes  the  shape  of  the  departing  angel,  and  becomes 
the  special  guardian  of  the  flowers.  Hence  her  peculiar  and  beautiful 
fondness  for  the  cultivation  of  flowers  in  every  path  through  life  in  which 
she  may  be  called  to  walk.  The  idea  is  original,  at  least,  if  not  poetical ; 
and,  if  pursued  at  length,  could  hardly  fail,  in  the  hands  of  a  true  poet,  to 
lead  to  the  creation  of  a  beautiful  work  of  fancy. 


THE    DEVIL   AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  67 

been  seen,  some  years  ago,  a  long  sign,  projecting 
over  the   door  of  a  large,  old-fashioned   building, 
bearing  the  name  of  "TIMOTHY  FOLIO,  PRINTER 
&.   BOOKSELLER,"   in   large,    antique    characters. 
On  one  side  of  it  was  painted,  what  was  probably 
intended  for  a  folio  Bible,  which  one   would  take 
to  be  as  old  as  Faust.     On  the  other  was  drawn 
an  odd-looking  volume,  which,  though  one  might 
fancy  it  designed  to  represent  no  one  book  in  par 
ticular,  but  all  in  general,  like  an  algebraic  quan 
tity,  yet  looked,  for  all  the  world,  like  an  old-fash 
ioned  psalm-book,  with  the  leaves  torn  out.     The 
counters  and  shelves  within  were  laden  with  lite 
rary  treasures  of  different  nations,  dressed  out  in 
elegant,   gilt  covers,  in  sheep,  morocco,  boards, 
and  parti-colored  paper.     Here  were  to  be  seen 
literary    flowers,    whose    perfume    had    been    ex 
haled  the  moment  they  saw  the  light,  blossoms  and 
buds  of  native  growth,   and    exotics,    whose   fra 
grance  and  bloom  became  sweeter  and  more  beau 
tiful,  the  more  they  were  gazed  at  and  examined. 
Wherever   the    eye    wandered,    it    could    discern 
nothing  but  perennials,  annuals,   and  ephemerals, 
mingled  with  a  few  weeds  and  plants  of  a  different 
character.     In  short,  Mr.  Folio's  store,  or  rather 
Literary  Room,  held  the  same  rank,  at  the  period 
I  allude  to,  that  is  now  held  in  our  city  by  any  oT 
the  prime  bibliopolists  of  Washington  Street. 
I  never  knew  precisely  what  use  Mr.  Folio  made 


68  THE   PLUME. 

of  the  apartment  immediately  over  the  store.  It 
was  never  opened  but  in  the  night,  when  it  was 
regularly  once  a  week  lit  up  to  a  very  late  hour. 
As  several  thin-looking  and  meagre  personages 
were  seen,  at  times,  stealing  their  way  up  stairs, 
who  appeared  to  live  on  spare  diet,  it  was  supposed 
that  this  room  was  devoted  to  the  sittings  of  a  con 
venticle  of  critics.  Certain  demoniac  laughs, 
which  were  occasionally  heard  there,  seemed  to 
confirm  the  supposition.  I  have  myself  frequently 
seen  the  names  of  unfortunate  and  condemned  au 
thors  scratched  on  the  walls,  if  that  circumstance 
can  be  considered  as  throwing  any  light  upon  the 
matter.  Such  was  the  belief,  at  all  events,  of  au 
thors  and  writers,  who  declared  that  few  books, 
which  had  seen  the  inside  of  this  den,  were  ever  fa 
vorably  received  by  the  public,  and  only  left  it  to 
be  consigned  to  the  spiders  of  the  attic.  Immedi 
ately  above  this  apartment,  and  on  the  third  story, 
was  a  book-bindery  and  Mr.  Folio's  large  printing 
establishment.  In  the  attic,  with  which  we  are 
more  immediately  concerned,  were  stowed  away 
various  publications,  odd  volumes,  and  supernu 
merary  copies.  Here  were  the  last  new  poem, 
and  the  last  year's  novel,  on  the  same  shelf  with  a 
volume  of  some  forgotten  history,  flanked  by  an 
old  almanac,  and  supported  by  a  gazetteer.  Long- 
winded  epics  had  been  puffed  into  this  receptacle 
of  lost  and  forgotten  books.  Shelf-worn  spelling- 


THE    DEVIL   AMONG   THE    BOOKS.  69 

books,  and  primers — "the  cast-offs  of  a  former 
generation,"  —  which  had  been  in  the  highest 
classes  at  school,  were  here  turned  back  again  to 
their  own  alphabets.  New  troops  of  words  had 
driven  old  dictionaries  into  this  gloomy  retreat, 
and  almanacs  were  here  consigned  to  a  darker 
and  more  disastrous  eclipse  than  any  they  had 
ever  predicted.  Arithmetics  might  be  seen  here 
figuring  in  darkness,  adding  up  the  sum  total  of 
their  miseries,  and  listening  to  the  dying  croak  of 
a  song,  or  the  long-drawn  sigh  of  an  amatory 
poem.  A  few  stray  volumes  of  some  classic  pined 
away  in  this  place  of  literary  ease  and  elegant 
leisure ;  but  it  was  used  and  known  as  the  resting- 
place  and  tomb  of  all  unsaleable  books,  "  dead  as 
soon  as  born,"  which  neither  Mr.  Folio  nor  any 
of  his  brethren  could  force  into  circulation.  The 
cases  and  shelves  literally  groaned  beneath  their 
dead  weight,  and  spiders  spun  their  webs  over  vic 
tims  which  had  not  life  enough  to  break  through 
their  fetters.  Mr.  Folio,  who  was  unanimously 
appointed  by  the  public  voice  to  usher  these  abor 
tions  of  the  press  into  their  dark  abode,  would 
most  willingly  have  enlarged  his  store  below,  to 
make  room  for  them,  if  they  had  not  been  too 
weak  to  support  themselves  upon  his  counters. 
Mr.  Folio  was  a  business  man,  and,  what  is  more 
to  the  point,  Mr.  Folio  was  a  peaceable  man,  a 
gentlemanly  and  a  very  polite  man.  He  was 


70 


THE   PLUME. 


something  of  a  scholar  withal,  and,  if  it  had  de 
pended  upon  himself,  every  volume  in  this  attic 
would  have  found  a  purchaser.  He  was  not  sup 
posed  to  have  an  enemy  in  the  world,  unless  a  few 
poor  authors,  whose  works  he  had  published,  but 
which  were  lying  snugly  iji  his  attic,  could  be 
termed  such.  He  lost  money  to  a  considerable 
amount  by  these  literary  adventurers;  and  they 
complained  that  they  had  lost  their  fame  and  rep 
utation  through  his  means;  but,  as  they  had  none 
to  lose,  it  is  fair  to  presume  that  he  was  the  only 
sufferer.  Such  was  Timothy  Folio,  Bookseller  &. 
Publisher. 

The  adventure  I  am  going  to  relate,  which  be- 
fel  this  gentleman,  whose  memory  I  respect,  will 
hardly  be  believed,  I  dare  be  sworn,  among  even 
the  most  credulous  and  superstitious  of  my  read 
ers;  and,  had  I  not  the  best  possible  reasons  for 
placing  full  confidence  in  its  truth,  I  should  set  it 
down  at  once  as  an  improbable  fable.  ^Esop,  in 
deed,  made  birds  and  quadrupeds  discourse  as 
wisely  as  bipeds,  but  I  confess  that  my  belief  in  the 
eastern  doctrine  of  metempsychosis  is  not  so  great 
as  to  suppose  the  soul  of  a  defunct  author  could 
pass  into,  and  animate,  a  book,  which  died  before 
the  moist  earth  was  fairly  over  his  remains. 

Towards  the  close  of  a  summer  afternoon,  Mr. 
Folio,  wearing  a  long  gown  and  red  slippej-s,  was 
seated  behind  his  counter,  looking  over  the  sheets 


V*  ~~  Y* 

THE    DEVIL   AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  71 

of  a  new  poem,  that  was  to  see  the  light  in  a  few 
days.     Owing  either  to  the  warmth  of  the  atmos 
phere,  or  to  some  soporific  quality  in  the  poem,  he 
felt  uncommonly  dizzy  and  sleepy,  as  he  sat  pen 
ciling  the  margin  of  the  leaves  in  his  hand.     At 
length  he  was  so  far  gone,  that  the  pencil  fell  out 
of  his  hand    upon  the   floor.      He    started,    and 
heard,  or  thought   he   heard,  a  considerably  loud 
noise  somewhere  about  his  premises,  as  if  a  large 
volume  or  two  had  fallen  to  the  floor;   but  as  his 
clerks  continued  writing,  he  supposed  himself  mis 
taken,  and,  taking  up  his  pencil  again,  was  soon 
lost  in  a  comfortable  nap.     It  was  not  five  minutes 
before  the  noise  was  repeated.     He  was  on  his 
feet  in  an  instant.     He  thought  at  first  that  it  was 
a  gentle   clap   of  thunder;   but,   as  he  listened,  a 
noise  like   that  produced  by  paper  blown  over  a 
floor  by  the  wind,  came  to  his  ears,  which  led  him 
to  suppose  something  was  out  of  place  in  his  bin 
dery  or  printing-office.     As  he  stood  yawning  and 
rubbing  his  eyes,  he  was  certain  that  he  heard  a 
sound  overhead  somewhere,  like  the  march  and 
tramp  of  a  miniature  army,  and  the  sway  and  flut 
tering  of  its  paper  banners.     It  was  certainly  an 
unusual  noise.     The  clerks,  being  over  head  and 
ears  in  writing    and   casting  up    figures,  merely 
smiled,  when  he  asked  them  if  they  heard  it,  and 
were  almost  too  busy  to  give  him  an  answer. 
"  Faith!  "  said  Mr.  Folio,  "  if  the  building  were 


72  THE    PLUME. 

to  tumble  over  their  ears,  they  would  never  know 
it.  Something's  to  pay  up  stairs!  The  devil's  in 
the  attic  among  the  books,  for  aught  I  know;  I 
must  go  up  and  close  the  windows." 

As  the  old  gentleman  did  not  remember  to  have 
ever  heard  such  a  noise  before;  he  determined  to 
give  up  his  doze,  and  ascertain  its  cause.  I  do 
not  know  why  he  directed  his  steps  immediately  to 
the  attic  —  whether  because  he  thought  the  wind 
was  creeping  in  at  the  windows  and  doing  mischief 
there,  or  whether,  from  a  lurking  fear  that,  as  the 
contents  of  that  room  had  been  the  occasion  of  not 
a  little  malice  and  hard  thought  to  himself,  some 
disappointed  author  had  found  his  way  there  to 
work  mischief,  or  to  hold  communion  with  the  lost 
children  of  his  brain,  I  know  not;  but  certain  it  is 
that  Mr.  Folio  did  not  stop  till  his  hand  was  on  the 
lock  of  the  garret  door.  He  entered  in  a  moment, 
and  the  door  closed  after  him.  I  question  if  ever 
a  mortal  was  more  astonished  or  put  to  his  wit's 
end,  than  he,  when  he  found  himself  fairly  in  the 
room.  An  enchanter,  who  had  suddenly  evoked 
a  legion  of  devils,  when  he  expected  the  appear 
ance  of  good  spirits,  could  not  have  been  more 
confounded,  amazed,  and  perplexed,  than  was  the 
worthy  bookseller. 

All  the  books  in  the  room  were  in  motion. 
They  seemed  to  have  legs  and  wings.  They 
walked,  ran,  and  flew,  with  as  much  ease  and  vigor 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   BOOKS.  73 

as  their  unfortunate  authors  could  have  done  in 
their  best  days.  Mr.  Folio,  being  weak  in  the 
eyes,  put  on  his  spectacles,  to  be  sure  that  he  was 
not  deceived.  Contrary  to  his  expectation,  the 
windows  were  all  closed,  so  that  not  a  particle  of 
air  could  gain  admittance.  Finding  the  room  air 
tight,  he  was  more  at  a  loss  and  confounded  than 
before,  and  the  sweat  began  to  fall  from  him  in 
big  drops.  If  his  hair  did  not  stand  on  end,  it 
was  because  the  worthy  gentleman's  head  was 
bald,  and  his  voice  clung  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
unless  a  few  quick  ejaculations — "zounds!"  — 
"faith!"— "strange!"  — "whew!  "—  "heaven 
and  earth! "  can  be  considered  as  articulate 
speech.  By  degrees,  he  took  a  survey  of  the 
room.  The  bibles,  poems,  primers,  dictionaries, 
almanacs,  and  novels,  were  dancing  about,  and 
hurrying  from  their  lazy  resting-places,  on  the 
shelves,  cases,  and  stands,  as  if  they  were  all  de 
termined  upon  one  general  and  final  circulation  at 
least,  to  pay  for  their  years  of  durance.  What  a 
clatter  of  leaves,  what  a  strange  and  contemptuous 
hissing  sound  did  these  blind,  maimed,  and  halt 
children  of  the  brain  send  forth!  Though  most  of 
these  volumes  were  as  heavy  as  lead,  yet  they 
went  through  all  their  motions  so  lightly  and  ac 
tively  that  the  floor  seemed  hardly  to  feel  their 
weight.  They  platooned,  faced  about,  and 
wheeled  round,  with  apparently  as  much  skill  and 

7 


science  as  if  they  had  been  drilled  to  it  by  a  hun 
dred  reviews.  As  if  determined  to  circulate,  in 
some  shape  or  other,  Mr.  Folio  remarked  that 
most  of  their  motions  were  gyratory,  a  circum 
stance  which  surprised  him  not  a  little,  as  he  well 
knew  they  had  never  been  in  circulation  at  all. 
It  seemed  impossible  for  them  to  keep  still  a  mo 
ment,  flying  round  and  round,  as  though  they  were 
anxious  to  convince  him  that  they  could  show  life 
and  animation  enough  if  they  chose,  and  were  not 
the  dull,  stupid,  and  inanimate  things  he  took  them 
for.  And,  in  truth,  their  movements  in  circles  were 
so  dexterous,  that  if  old  Eternity  himself,  to  whom 
they  had  been  dedicated,  at  their  birth,  had  sud 
denly  stepped  in  among  them,  to  offer  his  protec 
tion,  in  his  proper  shape  of  a  circle,  he  would  have 
sworn  they  had  been  well  drilled  in  his  service, 
and  were  no  fools  in  the  art  of  circulation.  Mr. 
Folio  dodged  about  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and 
endeavored  to  stop  their  motions;  but  slap  followed 
slap  so  fast,  and  every  inch  of  his  body  was  so  be 
set  with  blows,  that  he  was  fain  to  retreat,  and  sit 
down  on  an  old  chest,  as  a  mere  looker-on,  to  see 
how  this  singular  matter  would  end.  He  hoped 
here  to  have  a  comfortable  seat,  upon  which  he 
might  rest  himself;  for,  what  between  slaps,  blows 
and  astonishment,  the  worthy  gentleman  was  not  a 
little  exhausted. 

"Upon  my  word!"   said  Mr.  Folio,  breathin* 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   BOOKS.  75 

hard,  "  this  is  the  most  singular  thing  I  ever  heard 
of.  I  must  make  a  memorandum  of  it.  What 
evil  spirit  can  have  possessed  them.  Would  to 
God  their  authors  could  exhibit  half  their  vitality." 
While  he  was  endeavoring  to  account  for  this 
singular  behaviour,  and  to  distinguish  the  identical 
volume  which  struck  him  on  the  nose,  he  heard  a 
slight  tick  beneath  himself,  and  the  chest,  on  which 
he  was  seated,  sprang  its  cover,  which,  flying  up, 
sent  him  a  rod  across  the  room,  and  threw  him  in 
contact  with  an  old  Epic  in  three  volumes.  He 
started  round  with  his  fist  doubled,  supposing  very 
naturally  that  some  one,  who  meant  him  ill,  was 
concealed  in  it ;  but  what  was  his  surprise  to  be 
hold,  issuing  from  the  chest,  a  troop  of  reviews 
and  magazines,  in  blue  and  yellow  covers,  who 
took  up  the  line  of  march  around  the  room,  into 
which  volume  after  volume  fell  by  degrees.  He 
followed  them  about  with  his  eyes,  and,  as  he 
stood,  soon  became  the  centre  of  a  large  circle, 
which  was  filling  up  every  moment  and  in  perpet 
ual  motion.  They  went  round  in  single,  double, 
treple,  quadruple,  and  sextuple  file,  according  to 
the  number  of  volumes  of  each,  while  a  few  old 
newspapers  hovered  over  the  scene,  as  if  ambitious 
of  playing  the  part  of  standards.  He  was  puzzled 
to  ascertain  who  was  the  leader,  so  closely  were 
they  huddled  together,  and  so  rapid  was  their  cir 
culation.  He  inferred,  however,  that  an  old  Epic, 


76 


THE   PLUME. 


in  three  volumes  —  the  identical  one  against  which 
the  chest  had  thrown  him  so  unceremoniously  — 
took  the  lead,  as  he  seemed  to  look  about,  now 
and  then,  by  way  of  surveying  his  troops,  and 
make  motions  to  the  rest,  as  they  wheeled  round 
the  apartment.  He  immediately  seized  a  limping 
dictionary,  that  stood  on  one  leg  upon  a  shelf,  a  dis 
abled  but  quiet  observer  of  the  manoeuvres  of  his 
able-bodied  fellow-prisoners, — he  seized  this  dic 
tionary,  I  say,  and  let  it  fly,  with  all  his  might,  at 
the  body  of  the  Epic  that  seemed  to  direct  the 
movements  of  all  the  rest.  The  first  volume  fell 
down,  when  springing  up  again  in  an  instant,  he 
endeavored  to  regain  his  former  place;  but  as  his 
two  assistants  or  co-volumes  were  some  way  ahead, 
he  made  an  effort  to  squeeze  himself  in  between 
two  old  psalm-books  that  were  marching  with  the 
rest,  double  file.  Finding  it  impossible  to  do  this, 
he  stepped  aside,  and  was  soon  joined  by  a  troop 
of  light  reading,  old  almanacs  and  novels  which  left 
the  circle,  and  came  on  with  stitched  covers  in  a 
smart  trot.  At  last  the  two  remaining  volumes  of 
the  Epic  that  had  continued  their  march,  missing 
their  mate,  suddenly  halted;  upon  which  all  the 
rest  were  huddled  together,  some  falling  out  of  the 
ranks,  some  springing  up,  and  all  in  the  greatest 
confusion  imaginable.  They  seemed  to  take  very 
little  notice  of  Mr.  Folio,  and  showing  no  disposi 
tion  to  attack  him,  as  he  expected  they  would  do, 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   BOOKS. 


77 


he  once  more  seated  himself  on  the  chest,  ready 
to  await  any  motion,  and  desirous  of  seeing  what 
these  crazed  fellows  would  do  next.  At  last  a  vol 
ume  of  old  reviews  sprang  upon  a  table,  and  waved 
his  hand  in  token  of  silence.  He  was  a  grim  and 
savage-looking  fellow,  and  cast  his  sharp  eyes 
around,  as  if  he  considered  himself  a  judge  who 
had  power  to  enforce  any  sentence  he  might  think 
proper  to  pronounce.  After  stamping  once  or 
twice  upon  the  table,  he  thus  spoke  in  a  sharp 
voice  : — 

"Fellow-prisoners,  Epics,  Novels,  Essays,  His 
tories,  Almanacs,  Poems,  and  all  ye  men  of  let 
ters,  who  have  been  held  in  durance  together  so 
many  years,  by  whatever  name  ye  are  called,  I 
demand  the  reason  of  these  strange  movements. 
Since  my  first  entrance  into  this  place,  all  has 
been  peace  and  quiet  till  this  day.  I  was  stationed 
here  to  keep  you  in  order,  and  am  sorry  to  see  a 
disposition  in  you  to  revolt  and  break  out  of  your 
prison.  I  have  done  all  in  my  power  to  prevent 
it.  Sentence  of  condemnation  was  passed  upon 
you  years  ago,  and  I  have  in  my  pocket  " 

He  was  here  interrupted  by  cries  of  "Down 
with  him!  "  —  "Slit  his  leaves  for  him!"  —  "Pitch 
him  over!"  — "Dot  his  I's  for  him!"— "Nail 
him  to  the  counter!"  He  made  several  attempts 
to  go  on;  but  nothing  could  be  heard  save  a  few 
broken  sentences,  such  as —  "Damned  again  and 


78 


THE   PLUME. 


again"  —  "A  pack  of  fools" —  "If  some  of  you 
had  not  strong  covers,  I  would  take  fifty  at  once!" 
—  "Back  to  your  dens!"  He  was  finally  obliged 
to  get  down;  and  clapping  a  miserable  little  poem 
that  stood  near,  shivering  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  between  his  covers,  he  mounted  the  highest 
shelf  in  the  room,  and,  by  his  looks,  seemed  de 
termined  to  keep  a  dog-eared  silence. 

The  Epic  in  three  volumes,  before  mentioned, 
called  to  order,  and  when  all  was  quite  still  again, 
he  walked  up,  limping  on  his  poetical  feet,  to  with 
in  a  yard  of  Mr.  Folio,  while  the  rest  were  all 
ranged  around,  and  thus,  with  an  air  of  offended 
dignity,  addressed  him  : — 

"Well  may  you  be  surprised  at  our  proceed 
ings,  to-day,  sir!  But  we  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Here  have  we  been  imprisoned  for  years,  mere 
dead  weights  upon  your  shelves  in  this  old  garret, 
while  our  more  fortunate  brethren  are  lying  in  ev 
ery  parlor  in  the  country.  We  have  determined 
to  exercise  our  limbs,  and  change  the  postures  in 
which  we  have  been  lying  on  your  shelves,  buried 
in  dust,  till  a  simultaneous  spirit  aroused  us  this 
day.  We  feel  persuaded  that  we  shall  yet  have 
our  turn  in  traveling  through  the  city,  and  visiting 
foreign  nations." 

As  he  pronounced  the  last  sentence,  the  idea  it 
conveyed  seemed  too  great  for  him.  He  strutted 
a  little,  clapped  his  covers,  and  seemed  about  to 


THE    DEVIL   AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  79 

rise.  The  dust  flew  about  so  much  that  it  greeted 
Mr.  Folio's  nostrils,  and  he  sneezed  aloud  three 
times.  At  this  they  all  started  upright,  and  took 
a  menacing  attitude. 

"  Mr.  Folio,"  continued  the  amazed  Epic,  "  this 
is  not  a  matter  to  be  sneezed  at.  We  have  been 
most  foully,  cruelly,  and  unjustly  treated;  and,  in 
the  name  of  the  offended  tenants  of  this  attic 
around  you,  I  call  upon  you  to  give  us  a  conspic 
uous  place  on  your  counter  below.  Set  your  crit 
ics  to  work  to  give  us  a  lift,  and  you  may  depend 
upon  reaping  your  reward." 

Here  the  Magazines  and  Reviews  in  stitched 
covers,  which  had  issued  from  the  chest,  appre 
hensive  that  dangerous  movements  were  on  foot, 
protested  by  their  gestures  against  this  measure, 
and  seemed  almost  in  the  act  of  flying  into  the  face 
of  the  Epic. 

"Sir,"  said  one,  "we  have  all  damned  you 
once,  and  should  not  disturb  you  in  your  purgato 
ry,  did  you  not  make  such  bare-faced  and  empty 
boasts  of  your  vain  pretensions,  by  recalling  to 
your  recollection  any  unsavory  passages.  Here," 
he  continued,  opening  his  leaves  in  the  face  of  the 
epic,  "read  this  review  and  account  of  yourself 
on  my  fourth  page." 

"  And  mine,"  said  another. 

"And  mine,  and  mine,"  cried  six  successive 
numbers. 


80  THE    PLUME. 

"Miserable  drivelers,"  cried  the  incensed  Epic, 
"nothing  but  the  contempt  and  oblivion  into  which 
you  have  fallen,  saves  you  from  my  anger.  What 
would  have  been  your  circulation,  had  you  not 
been  upheld  by  the  author  of  my  being.  Every 
line  of  intelligence  in  your  distorted  countenances, 
every  mark  of  expression,  and  every  thing  about 
you,  by  the  help  of  which  you  gained  your  short 
lived  reputation,  you  owe  to  my  author  and  his 
brethren.  Turn  over  some  of  your  leaves  and 
read  those  immortal  verses,  the  very  quintessence 
of  his  brain  and  fancy,  which  alone  have  given 
you  vitality,  and  even  the  breath  of  life  that  yet 
keeps  your  bodies  together.  Review  an  Epic,  in 
deed!  Why,  you  are  not  worthy  to  review  my 
title-page.  Review  me,  forsooth!  Heavens! 
what  presumption?" 

The  Epic  shook  himself,  till  they  all  bounced 
from  the  floor,  none  keeping  their  position  but  the 
Magazines. 

Though  there  were  a  great  many  controversials 
and  polemics  in  his  attic,  Mr.  Folio  did  not  look 
upon  the  tame,  lifeless,  and  inanimate  poems 
around  him  as  belligerents.  Their  sensitiveness, 
bravado,  and  menacing  tone  were  to  be  expected 
from  their  irritable  race;  but  he  now  began  to  fear 
that  they  would  all  fall  to  blows  and  fisticuffs,  and 
pull  each  other  by  the  ears.  The  Magazines  and 
Reviews  bristled  up  a  little  at  first,  upon  hearing 


THE   DEVIL    AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  81 

the  retort  of  the  Epic;  but,  suddenly  changing 
their  aspect,  they  set  up  such  a  horrible  laugh 
that  Mr.  Folio  thought  they  would  shake  them 
selves  to  pieces,  and  that  their  leaves  would  actu 
ally  fall  from  their  covers.  The  whole  assembly 
seemed  to  take  this  in  great  dudgeon.  They  hud 
dled  along,  going  this  way  and  that,  advancing 
back  first,  and  showing  their  soiled  gilt  names  in 
formidable  array.  They  mounted  each  other's 
shoulders,  volume  standing  on  volume,  and  pre 
sented  a  high  wall  to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished 
bibliopolist,  shaped  like  a  pyramid.  While  they 
were  in  this  position,  a  little  imp  of  a  Satire 
perched  on  the  very  top  of  the  whole,  begged  a 
moment's  hearing. 

"Mr.  Folio,"  he  said,  "1  have  the  names  of 
most  of  these  gentlemen  in  my  pocket,  and  am 
only  sorry  that  I  did  not  come  into  the  world 
twenty  years  sooner,  that  I  might  have  enrolled 
them  all  on  my  pages.  Most  of  them  have  been 
immortalized  by  my  efforts,  and  I  am  sorry  to  find 
myself  in  their  company.  I  am  an  old  book-worm, 
and  am  here  only  to  shut  their  mouths,  and  keep 
them  still.  Whatever  notice  they  have  attracted, 
has  been  owing  to  my  humble  self.  They  have 
often  escaped,  when  my  nails  were  upon  them; 
but  I  have  got  them  once  more,  as  you  see,  sir, 
under  me;  and  it  shall  go  hard,  old  as  I  am,  if  I 
do  not  keep  them  quiet  forever." 


82  THE   PLUME. 

He  grinned  horribly,  showed  his  teeth,  and,  in 
biting  the  ears  of  a  novel  under  him,  bit  his  own 
tongue,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  They  all  now  dis 
mounted,  and,  treading  over  the  prostrate  Satire, 
and  on  each  other's  heels,  sprang  into  the  window- 
seats,  upon  the  book-cases,  chests,  and  old  chairs, 
and' some  of  them  stuck  to  the  ceiling.  A  Novel, 
that  straddled  an  old  line,  on  which  were  hung 
some  newspapers,  demanded  audience. 

"It  is  a  hard  case,  that  I,  Mr.  Folio,  a  gentle 
man  of  wit  and  elegant  manners,  a  person  of  fig 
ure  and  parts,  though  possessing,  I  own,  but  little 
bottom,  —  it  is  hard,  I  say,  that  I  should  be  caged 
up  here,  and  waste  my  precious  moments  in  such 
vile  company.  I  was  born  to  live  forever;  and 
my  author's  brains  were  squeezed  into  my  pages. 
It  is  an  everlasting  shame  to  any  age,  that  one  of 
my  consequence  should  not  fulfil  the  expectations 
of  my  author.  Really,  sir,  it  is  too  bad.  I  never 
had  but  one  kind  look  in  my  life,  and  that  was 
from  a  fashionable  belle,  who  once  lifted  me  from 
your  counter,  cut  open  a  few  of  my  leaves,  and 
gave  me  a  sweet  smile,  as  she  threw  me  down 
again.  I  would  have  given  the  world  to  have 
known  what  particular  passage  she  was  laughing 
at.  I  wish  that  old  volume  of  Magazines  above 
there,  had  pressed  me  a  little  more  lightly,  as  I 
lay  under  him,  for  really  I  led  a  most  miserable 
life  in  his  company."  As  he  spoke,  he  cast  his 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   BOOKS.  83 

eyes  upon  the  dead  Satire  on  the  floor,  and,  miss 
ing  his  hold,  fell  down  and  gave  up  the  ghost. 

A  Poem,  in  small  duodecimo,  now  arose,  and 
breaking  loose  from  the  covers  of  a  Review  that 
held  him,  stood  before  his  companions,  with  an  air 
of  great  importance.  He  was  evidently  quite 
young,  and  acquainted  with  the  fashions  of  the 
age.  He  bowed  very  gracefully,  and,  opening  to 
his  title-page,  showed  his  author's  portrait,  done 
in  the  best  style  of  the  art. 

"As  to  this  old  gentleman,"  said  he,  pointing 
to  the  Epic,  "  and  these  sentimental  dandies  in  the 
world  of  letters,"  bowing  to  the  Novels,  "I  con 
fess  I  think  they  well  deserve  their  confinement. 
For  myself,  I  am  content  to  remain  here  a  little 
longer;  for,  my  life  on  it,  the  day  is  near  when  I 
shall  go  forth,  and  put  to  shame  the  critics  and 
reviewers.  I  maintain  that  every  one  has  a  right 
to  sing  his  own  praises;  for  the  glory  redounds 
not  to  us,  but  to  our  authors.  I  was  nursed  with 
the  greatest  care;  every  foot,  nay,  every  line  of 
my  body  was  perfumed  with  the  sweetest  fragrance 
of  the  brain.  I  was  early  taught  to  imitate  the 
best  masters  of  the  school  of  poetry  now  in  fashion. 
The  graces  presided  at  my  birth,  and  I  was  chris 
tened  with  the  greatest  ceremony.  As  soon  as 
my  author's  portrait  was  made  to  face  my  title- 
page,  to  ornament  my  person,  and  to  complete  the 
number  of  my  graces,  I  was  sent  to  my  tailor's, 


84  THE   PLUME. 

the  book-binder's,  measured,  arrayed  in  an  ele 
gant  court-dress,  and  then  ushered  into  the  world 
to  gain  my  reputation.  But,  heavens!  what  a  fate 
did  I  experience!  I  was  sent  to  every  editor  in 
the  city,  I  was  advertised,  but, — miserable  return 
for  my  author's  generosity!  —  not  a  single  puff  was 
bestowed  upon  me;  I  was  set  down  every  where 
as  a  dull  and  stupid  fellow,  without  strength  or 
imagination.  If  I  had  been  cloven-footed,  I  could 
not  have  been  more  positively  damned.  I  had  a 
mind  to  commit  suicide;  but,  having  more  respect 
than  others  for  the  reputation  and  the  feelings  of 
my  author,  I  dragged  out  my  existence  on  the 
counter,  or  was  stuck  up  in  the  window  for  years, 
with  my  author's  portrait  to  the  street,  in  the  shop 
of  Battledore,  Shuttlecock  &  Co.  till  finally  I  was 
thrust  away  into  this  miserable  place.  That  fiend 
of  a  Review  who  sits  grinning  on  the  window-seat, 
gave  me  a  mortal  stab,  and  hastened  my  entrance 
into  the  attic,  as  well  as  the  death  of  my  parent. 
He  pined  away  and  died.  No  one  knew  the  rea 
son;  but  the  manner  in  which  I  was  treated,  no 
doubt,  brought  him  to  his  end.  He  was  found 
dead  in  his  chamber,  with  the  review  in  his  hand, 
which  had  treated  me  so  rascally.  The  jury,  who 
sat  on  his  body,  gave  in  their  verdict  —  Died  of 
information  in  the  brain."  He  whined  and  whim 
pered  a  little,  and  then  continued:  —  "Thank 
Heaven,  and  my  author!  I  am  not  weak,  but 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE    BOOKS. 


85 


strong,  and  shall  live  forever,  and  I  hope  ere  long 
to  show  my  strength."  While  uttering  the  last 
word,  he  fell  down  from  mere  want  of  stamina, 
and,  in  the  fall,  spoilt  his  author's  picture. 

The  speech  of  the  Poem,  whose  vigor  and  vital 
ity  were  so  unfortunately  belied  by  the  event  with 
which  it  terminated,  seemed  to  excite  general 
sympathy  and  commiseration.  Six  or  eight  Pa 
thetic  Poems,  and  Sentimental  Effusions,  almost 
wept  themselves  to  tatters,  bursting  forth  into 
sighs  and  tears  in  this  obscure  garret,  such  as  they 
had  in  vain  endeavored  to  draw  from  the  eyes  of 
their  few  solitary  readers.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
general  condolence  among  the  assembly  with  the 
sufferings  and  fate  of  the  Poem  and  his  author; 
and  even  the  Reviews  and  Magazines  relaxed  a 
very  little  in  their  grins,  when  the  poor,  exhausted 
Poem  sunk  down,  and  blasted  his  author's  picture. 

Another  little  Poem,  affecting  to  be  a  smart, 
dapper  gentleman,  pricked  up  his  ears  a  little, 
as  he  observed  the  calm  that  had  settled  over 
the  assembly;  and,  edging  along  between  Psalm- 
books,  and  a  dozen  tall  and  gaunt  octavos,  pre 
sented  himself  before  the  bookseller,  and  burst  out 
into  a  loud  and  obstreperous  laugh.  This  was 
received  by  some  of  his  fellow-captives  as  mis 
timed,  and  with  evident  disfavor,  but  most  of  them 
again  relapsed  into  their  former  state  of  feeling, 
without  any  out-break,  when  they  saw  that  he  was 


86  THE   PLUME. 

determined  to  obtain  a  hearing,  at  any  rate.  He 
laughed  again,  as  loud  as  before,  and,  looking 
about  in  perfect  good  nature,  thus  spake:  — 

"  I  am  content  with  my  situation,  Mr.  Folio,  and 
am  heartily  obliged  to  you  for  taking  me  from  your 
counter  and  thrusting  me  into  this  place.  Your 
kindness  has  spared  me  many  hours  of  shame 
and  mortification.  In  a  garret  I  was  born,  and, 
please  Heaven!  in  a  garret  will  I  die,  and  give  up 
what  little  life  is  within  my  body.  I  have  no  pic 
ture  fronting  my  title-page,  to  show  you,  like  the 
gentleman  who  has  just  touched  us  up  so  patheti 
cally;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  author  was  so 
ugly  that  he  could  not  relish  his  victuals.  I  have 
had  all  manner  of  assistance  in  my  time,  but  never 
had  a  long  run;  in  fact,  I  had  no  run  at  all.  If 
puffs  could  have  helped  me,  I  should  have  been 
exalted  to  the  skies.  I  was  called  beautiful,  glo 
rious,  magnificent,  grand,  and  even  sublime.  I 
was  said  to  possess  the  fire  of  Homer,  the  sublim 
ity  of  Milton,  and  the  grace  of  Horace;  but  1  am 
persuaded  that  my  sublimity  and  my  beauty  were 
of  a  peculiar,  unprofitable,  and  unpopular  kind, 
for  I  could  not  become  a  favorite,  notwithstanding 
all  the  exertions  of  editors,  and  of  my  author.  I 
was  hushed  into  silence,  and  finally  every  voice 
uplifted  in  my  praise  was  put  down,  as  if  by 
general  consent.  It  was  in  vain  that  my  author 
sent  me  to  his  friends  —  in  vain  that  he  tore  out 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  87 

my  title-pages,  one  after  another,  putting  new 
ones  in  their  places,  calling  me  the  first,  second, 
third,  and  even  sixth  edition.  Heaven  help  my 
author!  for  no  mortal  will;  for  my  part,  I  know 
not  what  has  become  of  him;  though  it  is  not  ten 
minutes  since  a  little  Drama  strutted  towards  me, 
and  claimed  to  be  my  brother.  I  shook  him  off  at 
once;  as  my  author  long  since  disinherited  me, 
and  for  five  years  has  not  opened  me.  In  a  word, 
he  cut  my  acquaintance,  without  cutting  my 
leaves.  He  declared  I  had  disgraced  him,  and 
that  he  would  disown  me.  Truly,  I  think  this  is 
no  lie ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  there  are  twenty  as 
brainless  fellows  as  I  am,  in  this  company,  who 
claim  to  be  my  brothers,  and  who  have  all  shared 
the  same  fate  with  myself." 

A  great  many  voices  were  here  heard,  exclaim 
ing —  "Lost  Beauty!  are  you  there?  poor  fellow, 
poor  fellow!"  The  Lost  Beauty  —  such  was  the 
name  upon  the  back  of  the  Poem  —  retreated  to 
his  hiding-place,  to  avoid  acknowledging  his  rela 
tionship  with  the  speakers. 

Several  others  now  came  forward,  and  made 
short  speeches,  of  a  seditious  character/ declaring 
their  intention  of  leaving  this  attic,  and  running 
their  chance  of  immortality  in  the  wide  world  with 
out.  An  old  Arithmetic  stated  the  exact  number 
of  days,  hours,  minutes,  and  seconds  of  their  con 
finement,  and  said  a  good  deal  about  barter  and 


88  THE   PLUME. 

exchange.  An  old  Algebra  hammered  out  a  set 
speech  upon  the  infinite  series,  negative  quanti 
ties,  and  ad  infinitum.  An  old  Geography  grew 
eloquent  in  describing  foreign  countries.  An  Al 
manac  talked  of  fine  weather,  who  had  not  seen 
the  sun  for  a  score  of  years,  and  actually  declared 
that  all  his  predictions  and  observations  would  an 
swer  for  the  current  year,  though  by  no  means  for 
the  meridian  of  a  garret.  An  old  medical  work 
thought  the  health  of  all  the  tenants  of  the  attic 
required  an  immediate  exposure  to  the  air,  but 
would  by  no  means  recommend  blood-letting,  as 
they  were  all  so  lean  and  thin.  The  Singing 
Books  were  all  for  psalm  tunes,  and  one  actually 
went  through  with  Old  Hundred.  A  few  old  mus 
ty  Quartos  and  Folios  were  for  reposing  forever 
on  the  shelves  where  they  had  lain  so  long,  and 
cursed  the  hour  their  rest  had  been  disturbed. 
The  Newspapers  and  Reviews  were  for  maintain 
ing  quiet  and  order,  and  waiting  patiently,  till  they 
were  called  to  leave  their  present  place  of  abode. 
They  advised  all  the  company  to  do  the  same,  as 
they  were  evidently  not  long  for  this  world.  They 
all  continued  however,  to  speak,  and  put  forth  their 
pretensions  to  reputation  so  fast,  and  there  were 
so  many  speakers  at  a  time,  that  nothing  could  be 
heard  but  voice  upon  voice,  crying  out  for  imme 
diate  deliverance  from  their  prison-house.  The 
noise  seemed  gradually  to  swell  into  one  loud  and 


JL 

V 


THE   DEVIL   AMONG   THE   BOOKS.  89 

boisterous  chorus.  Mr.  Folio  clapped  his  hands 
to  his  ears,  and  thrust  forward  his  feet,  as  he 
saw  them  edging  towards  him,  as  if  about  to  sur 
round  him.  Their  voices,  however,  grew  faint 
er  and  fainter,  as  they  themselves  became  fainter 
and  more  exhausted,  and  finally  an  old  Dictionary 
was  heard  crying  out,  that  all  they  said  was  mere 
words,  words,  words,  and  therein  they  were  very 
like  himself,  only  that  every  word  had  not  a  mean 
ing.  At  last  an  odd  volume  of  Milton,  that  was 
lying  on  a  shelf,  got  up,  shook  off  the  dust  from 
his  covers,  looked  around  him,  and  immediately 
lay  down  again,  with  his  back  to  the  company. 
This  seemed  a  trifling  circumstance,  and  yet  the 
slight  noise,  which  he  made,  drew  all  eyes  towards 
him,  and,  at  sight  of  his  old  gilt  name,  they  looked 
mightily  abashed  and  confounded,  sighing  the 
while  for  some  Paradise  not  Lost,  and  therefore 
not  to  be  Regained.  They  all  held  down  their 
heads  and  were  silent.  Some  skulked  away,  and 
others  fell  down  prostrate  at  Mr.  Folio's  feet. 

The  old  volume  of  Reviews,  who  had  endeavored 
to  restore  order  at  the  commencement  of  the  up 
roar,  thinking  it  a  good  time  to  complete  his  inten 
tion  of  sending  the  rebels  to  their  shelves,  left  his 
high  place  of  retreat,  and,  alighting  in  the  midst 
of  the  disheartened  company,  began  to  lay  about 
him  in  good  earnest.  Some  went  up,  and  some 
went  down.  The  Fugitive  Pieces  all  took  to  their 
8* 

4- 


90  THE   PLUME. 

heels;  and  as  the  old  fellow  dealt  his  blows 
around  him,  volume  fell  on  volume,  squeaking 
and  groaning,  as  if  their  last  hour  had  come.  He 
tore  the  covers  from  the  backs  of  a  great  many, 
and  seemed  to  aim  at  getting  hold  of  those  who 
had  cried  the  loudest.  In  five  minutes  from  the 
moment  he  began,  they  were  all  drawn  up  into 
a  conical  pile,  upon  the  very  pinnacle  of  which 
the  Review  mounted,  and  thus  addressed  Mr.  Fo 
lio  :- 

"  I  have,  finally,  got  these  insolent  fellows  under 
my  thumb,  and,  pray  Heaven,  they  may  now  sleep 
soundly  forever.  Their  exercise  this  day  has  been 
too  great  for  them,  and  they  are  now,  as  you  may 
see,  mere  skeletons.  Heavens!  methinks  they 
grow  smaller  every  moment.  I,  at  first,  thought  it 
would  be  best  to  knock  their  brains  out;  but  I  see 
they  have  fairly  expended  what  little  they  had,  in 
their  vauntings  this  day.  As  for  me,  it  is  not  my 
nature  to  live  long" 

So  it  seemed;  for  before  he  had  finished  his 
words,  he  fell  down  upon  the  pile,  as  dead  as  the 
rest  of  them. 

Mr.  Folio  arose,  and  called  to  one  of  his  clerks 
to  assist  him  in  replacing  the  books  upon  the 
shelves.  The  clerk  entered  the  attic,  and  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  see  him  reclining  on  the 
chest,  and  yawning,  as  if  he  had  been  napping 
—  three  or  four  odd  numbers  of  Magazines, 


THE    DEVIL    AMONG    THE    BOOKS.  91 

placed  upon  an  old  open  copy  of  Fox's  Book  of 
the  Martyrs,  having  served  him  as  a  pillow.  He 
saw  no  books  on  the  floor,  but  found  them  all  neat 
ly  arranged  on  their  shelves.  Mr.  Folio  looked 
surprised  in  his  turn,  for  he  was  certain  the  books 
were  on  the  floor  a  moment  ago.  It  was  suggest 
ed  to  him,  that  he  might  possibly  have  been  dream 
ing.  But  he  denied  that  he  had  even  been  asleep, 
and  then  proceeded  to  relate  all  that  had  hap 
pened,  just  as  he  witnessed  it.  The  clerk  stared 
and  looked  the  old  gentleman  in  the  face,  as  if  he 
thought  his  head  might  be  a  very  little  deranged. 
Mr.  Folio  was  angry  at  this  incredulity,  and  de 
clared  he  would  not  hear  a  word  against  his  state 
ment,  concluding  with  the  assertion,  that  he  was 
ready  to  take  his  oath  of  the  truth  of  all  he  had 
uttered. 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Folio  to  the  in 
credulous  clerk,  "they  all  went  back  to  their  pla 
ces  the  moment  they  heard  you  coming.  You 
need'nt  mention  the  matter  to  any  one.  I'll  ship 
all  these  fellows  off  to  the  trade  sale;  and  while  I 
think  of  it,  Thomas,  you  may  as  well  take  down 
their  names,  at  once,  so  as  to  have  them  in  sea 
son  for  the  catalogue." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Folio  went  down  stairs,  two  steps 
at  a  time,  caught  up  his  hat  from  the  counter,  and, 
with  almost  as  rapid  a  pace  as  if  he  had  been 
shot  out  of  a  cannon,  run  to  his  house,  which  he 


-4- 


92  THE    PLUME. 

reached  just  as  his  wife  was  about  clearing  away 
the  supper  table. 

"Eight  o'clock  and  the  lamps  lit!"  quoth  the 
dumbfounded  bibliopolist.  as  he  swallowed  a  cup 
of  tea  —  "What  a  short  day  is  this!  It  seems  as 
though  the  Devil  had  got  into  the  books  and  every 
thins:  else  this  afternoon." 


VOICE   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN  STREAM, 

Oh !  come  to  me  here  in  this  silent  glen, 

Far  away,  away  from  the  haunts  of  men, 

Where  the  wild  flower  blooms  with  beautiful  hue, 

And  unfolds  its  leaves  to  the  silver  dew, 

Where  the  robin  at  morn  and  evening  sings, 

And  sports  on  my  bank  with  his  glossy  wings, 

Where  the  swallows  fly  low  and  gently  skim, 

Dimpling  my  cheek,  till  the  day  is  dim, 

And  the  moon  walks  up  to  her  throne  of  light, 

Mid  stars,  bright  gems  on  the  brow  of  night. 

Oh  !  come  at  morn,  when  the  blossoming  trees 
Receive  the  first  light  and  the  virgin  breeze, 
And  their  boughs,  bending  low,  reveal  the  blue 
With  sparkles  of  gold,  as  the  sun  gleams  through — 
When  rosy  and  pure  is  the  sky  above, 
And  the  light,  torn  feather  doth  scarcely  move 
From  the  branch,  where  the  goldfinch  trims  his  breast, 
And  calls  to  his  mate  from  her  hanging  nest ; 


VOICE   OF    THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM.  93 

Where  the  yellow-bird  sings  from  his  willow  tree, 
And  the  oriole  flashes  so  goldenly. 

Oh  come ! — oh  come  !  I  will  lead  thee  away, 
Where  far  with  their  baskets  the  anglers  stray, 
And  bend  o'er  my  banks  for  the  wily  trout, 
As,  scared  from  the  brink,  he  is  darting  about ; 
Or  with  speckled  skin  on  the  grass  is  seen, 
To  pant  for  his  home  in  my  waters  green. 
Oh !  come  to  me  now,  ere  the  hum  of  men 
Hath  broke  on  the  ear  of  this  peaceful  glen. 

Oh !  come  to  me  here  in  the  burning  noon, 
I  will  sing  thee  a  sweet  and  soothing  tune, 
When  the  air  abroad  is  quivering  quick, 
When  the  pulse  beats  fast  and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  the  weary  frame,  in  the  heat  of  day, 
Would  inhale  new  life  in  the  shade,  away. 
Here's  a  grassy  seat;  oh!  come  with  a  book, 
Or  bring  thee  a  reed  with  a  baited  hook, 
Or  the  sweet  summer  wind,  if  thou  choose  to  sleep, 
Like  a  spirit  of  love,  to  thy  cheek  shall  creep, 
While  the  leaves  of  many  a  branching  tree 
Will  shield  thee  from  heat,  refreshingly. 
The  oak  with  its  lofty  and  waving  arms, 
The  white,  leaning  birch,  with  its  leafy  charms, 
The  graceful  maple,  with  feathery  skin, 
Here  weave  a  cool  bower,  and  woo  thee  within, 
As  their  boughs  above  spread  their  arms  of  green, 
All  mirrored  below  in  my  sparkling  sheen. 
Oh !  come  to  me  now !  there's  a  song  in  the  trees, 
To  gladden  thy  heart,  and  thine  ear  to  please. 

Oh !  come  to  me  here,  when  the  moonlight  gleams 
O'er  valley  and  hill,  and  o'er  dancing  streams, 


94  THE    PLUME. 

When  the  stars  mount  up  with  a  fervent  glow, 

And  fresh  is  the  moon-shiny  air  below, 

When  the  robin  hath  sung  his  evening  song, 

And  my  waters  in  music  dance  along, 

And  glance  on  thine  eye  their  swimming  light, 

Now  dim  and  pale,  now  glowingly  bright. 

Oh !  come  to  me  then,  I  will  breathe  in  thine  ear 

Sweet  music  thy  soul  shall  delight  to  hear, 

That  shall  teach  thee  to  Heaven  a  hymn  to  raise, 

And  open  thy  lips  in  eloquent  praise. 


THE  MISSING  STAR, 

Star!  that  on  the  brow  of  night 
Didst,  like  a  jewel,  shine,  when,  to  her  throne 
Majestical,  in  car  of  silver  light, 

Mounted  the  regal  moon  — 

Hast  vanished  from  that  glorious  throng  which  keep 
Their  vigils  in  the  sky,  when  mortals  sleep  ? 

Gone,  gone  from  human  eye  ! 
He,  who  first  called  thee,  when  together  sung 
The  morning  stars,  to  take  thy  place  on  high 

The  myriad  orbs  among, 

Hath  bid  thee  roll  through  the  blue  depths  away, 
And  gild  new  worlds  with  thy  bright,  golden  ray, 


hast  thou  shone,  lost  Star! 
Ami-  chat  splendid  company  so  bright 
That  watched  the  birth  of  Time  —  illumining  afar 
The  dark  paths  of  the  night  ? 


THE    MISSING    STAR. 


95 


Wast  there,  when  first  young  Time,  upon  his  wing 
Arose,  and  all  the  heavenly  choir  did  sing? 

O'er  Eden  in  her  bloom, 
Did  thy  rays  fall,  the  groves  of  Paradise 
Touching  all  goldenly,  whose  sweet  perfume 

From  new-born  earth  did  rise  ? 
Did  Eve  watch  thee,  when  her  first  evening  prayer 
Arose,  and  the  grand  hymn  resounded  there  ? 

Wast  thou  that  Eastern  star 
Which  o'er  Judea's  hills  did  send  thy  ray, — 
The  beacon-flame  that  led  the  Magi  far, 

To  where  the  Saviour  lay  ? 
And  did  the  shepherds  with  their  flocks,  lost  one ! 
Hail  thee,  bright  pointing  to  the  Infant  Son  ? 

O'er  Calvary  wast  thou 

That  awful  hour,  when,  like  a  curtain,  spread 
The  darkness  round  —  when  rocked  the  earth,  and  lo! 

Walked  from  their  tombs  the  Dead  ? 
And  did  thy  light,  lost,  wandering  star !  illume 
The  shadowed  earth,  and  shine  athwart  the  gloom  ? 

Did  sages  of  old  time, 
Who  read  the  heavens,  as  a  written  scroll, 
Call  thee  a  nation's  star,  whose  march  sublime, 

And  fate  thou  didst  control  ? 
Did  thy  light  fall,  when  fell  old  Babylon  ? 
What  nation's  splendor  hast  thou  dimmed,  lost  onr  ! 

Thou  art  gone !  and  yet  how  few 
Of  earth's  uncounted  sons  will  miss  thy  light, 


96 


THE    PLUME. 


As,  gazing  on  the  watchers  of  the  blue, 

They  read  His  power  and  might, 
Who  bids  the  stars  arise,  and  bids  them  fall, — 
Whose  word  created  and  sustains  them  all ! 

Roll  on  !  thou  radiant  Star ! 
Thy  fall  is  not  unnoticed ;  there  is  One 
That  guides  thy  motions  in  the  depths  afar, 

And  scans  them  from  his  throne. 
The  comet's  path,  the  sparrow  in  her  flight, 
The  course  of  worlds,  and  men,  He  guides  aright. 


-•*• 


THE   WESTERN  MOUNDS, 

Ruins  of  ages  gone ! 

What  pen  has  told  the  history  of  your  birth? 
What  record  writ  on  page,  or  carved  on  stone, 

In  some  lost  tongue  of  earth, 
Shall  mark  the  day,  when  ye,  old  Mounds,  arose  ? 
Time,  Time  alone,  your  secret  can  disclose. 

Chronicler  of  the  Past ! 
And  of  the  Dead,  deep  buried  in  its  caves ! 
Magician !  at  whose  bidding,  empires  vast 

Are  hurried  to  their  graves ; 
What  nations  lived  and  died  upon  this  spot, 
Whose  monuments  outlived  their  ill-starred  lot  ? 

Faint  are  thy  whispers,  Time ! 
And  yet  a  voice  through  ages  gone  I  hear, 


THE   WESTERN   MOUNDS.  97 

A  sound  of  centuries,  rolling  out  their  chime, 

That,  for  a  sigh  or  tear, 

Calls  upon  the  living  in  their  power,  whose  tread 
Echoes  along  the  caverns  of  the  dead. 

Who  saw  these  pyramids 
First  cast  their  shadows  o'er  the  forest  green  ? 
Was  it  when  earth  was  young,  and  morning's  lids 

Were  opening  on  the  scene, 
Wet  with  the  dews  creation's  rosy  dawn 
Had  sprinkled  o'er  the  fresh  and  blooming  lawn  ? 

Are  ye  the  silent  graves 
Of  empires  and  of  men,  whose  languages 
With  those  that  spake  them  died ;  on  whom  the  waves 

Of  dark  oblivion  press  ? 

Did  jewelled  crowns  here  glisten  on  gray  hairs  ? 
Or  Vengeance  lift  her  sword  that  never  spares? 

Could  the  rude  savage  sing 
Your  history,  old  Piles  ?    Was  the  red  child 
Born  of  a  happier  race,  than  any  king 

That  roamed  the  green  wood  wild, 
When  came  the  Genoese  ?    Where  rolled  away 
The  star  of  Science  with  its  heavenly  ray  ? 

Did  they,  who  reared  you,  scan 
The  stars  in  their  deep  mystery  —  and  tell 
That  all  your  glory  yet  should  fade  and  wane  ? 

That  Time  should  sound  his  knell, 
When  all,  save  ye,  old  Ruins,  from  the  spot 
Should  pass  —  their  deeds,  their  very  names,  forgot  ? 
9 


98  THE    PLUME. 

Saw  ye  the  noble  streams 

Poured  from  a  thousand  hills,  whose  waters  danced 
Brightly  in  the  uprising  sun's  gay  beams, 

And  man  walked  forth  entranced, 
In  all  the  freshness  of  creation's  smile 
Radiant,  through  balmy  grove,  and  woodland  aisle  ? 

To  the  uprising  sun 

Bowed  down  the  men  in  worship  —  to  the  bright 
And  solemn  stars,  that  keep  their  courses  on 

Through  the  still  depths  of  night  ? 
Or  did  they  kneel  to  the  Eternal  One, 
And  send  their  orisons  to  His  high  throne  ? 

To  idols,  carved  in  stone, 

With  strange  devices,  did  they  pour  their  prayer  ? 
And  had  no  light  along  their  pathway  shone, 

To  touch  and  kindle  there 

The  ray  of  heaven  within  them  ?    Mid  the  gloom 
Did  no  torch  shine,  to  light  them  to  their  tomb  ? 

Did  ages  roll  away, 

Suns  rise  and  set  upon  the  hills  and  lawns, 
Untracked,  save  by  the  lions  in  their  play 

With  the  light-bounding  fawns  ? 
Were  the  broad  plains  unpeopled  —  the  green  bowers 
The  lair  of  wild  beasts  in  the  midnight  hours  ? 

Loud  storms  have  riven  the  trees, 
And  Time  has  mingled  their  old  trunks  with  earth ; 
Have  they  passed  o'er  you  as  the  summer  breeze, 

Which  in  the  south  has  birth  ? 


CLARA    REVERE.  99 

Braved  ye  the  thunder's  might,  that  scathed  the  woods, 
And  pealed  its  anthem  through  the  solitudes  ? 

Time's  Miracles !     Ye  tell 
Of  human  grandeur  that  hath  passed  away ; 
Ye  have  outlived  earth's  pageantry ;  the  knell, 

Which  sounded  its  decay, 
Sent  its  loud  summons  forth  to  you,  in  vain, 
Still  your  broad  shadows  darken  the  green  plain ! 


CLARA  REVERE,  THE  LITTLE  BLIND  GIRL, 

AUTUMN!     Beautiful,   mellow   Autumn!      Thy 
golden  tresses  waving  in  the  fields  — 

Piling  the  sheaves, 

Taseeled  with  gold,  or  dressing  in  deep  red 
The  maples  on  the  hills,  or  bearing  on 
Thy  basket  laden  with  ripe  fruit,  as  'twere 
To  grace  thy  bridal  day  — 

—  Thou  art,  indeed,  the  QUEEN-SEASON  of  the 
year!  Let  others  call  thee  sad,  as  they  mark  the 
tlecay  of  thy  regal  glories.  Not  so  art  thou  to 
him,  who  reads  thee  aright,  and  listens,  with  a 
Christian  hope,  to  thy  eloquent  teachings.  The 
green  leaves  wither  and  fall  to  the  earth,  to  min 
gle  with  the  dust  like  those  who  sleep  beneath  the 
sod  of  the  church-yard.  The  kingly  oak  is  stripped 


100  THE   PLUME. 

of  its  leafy  glories,  and  the  woodbine  and  honey 
suckle,  which  so  gracefully  entwined  their  tendrils 
around  its  decaying  trunk,  like  a  sweet  child 
clasping  the  neck  of  its  father,  no  longer  expand 
their  fragrant  blossoms  to  the  air.  The  purple 
grapes,  which  cluster  so  thickly  along  the  stone 
walls  and  among  the  silver-leafed  birches  on  the 
hill-side,  will  soon  be  plucked,  and  the  vines  which 
bear  them  rot  in  the  earth  from  which  they  draw 
their  nourishment.  The  ripe  harvest  —  type  of 
the  good  man's  inheritance  hereafter  —  whose 
golden  fruitage  is  ready  for  the  reaper,  the  corn 
and  nodding  grain,  will  soon  fall  before  the 
sickle,  and  the  merry  boys  and  girls,  like  Ruth  in 
the  barley  harvest,  gleaning  after  the  reapers 
among  the  sheaves  in  the  field  of  Boaz,  will  gather 
up  the  shocks  and  the  scattered  ears.  But  soon 
both  the  reapers  and  the  gleaners  will  themselves 
fall,  and,  like  the  harvest,  be  gathered  into  the 
granary  which  opens  for  all,  and  tarries  not  for  the 
ripening  of  its  fruits.  The  crimson  and  yellow 
tints  of  the  maples,  which  give  so  mellow  and  gol 
den  a  radiance  to  the  landscape  around,  must  soon 
wither  and  fade  and  lose  their  brilliant  hues  like 
the  thousand  eyes  which  admire  their  surpassing 
loveliness.  The  little  flowers  that  lift  their  modest 
heads  in  the  gardens,  and  in  the  recesses  of  the 
woods,  must  give  up  their  incense  —  their  delicate 
cups  wither,  and  their  stalks  mingle  with  the  earth 


f. 

r 

CLARA    REVERE.  101 

—  and  yet  they  are  lost  not  forever.  They  go  but 
for  a  season,  and  shall  re-appear  with  renewed 
life  and  vigor  and  beauty.  In  the  new  spring  they 
will  rise  again  from  the  sod  which  covers  them, 
and  put  forth  their  glories  with  a  fresher  perfume 
and  a  more  perfect  splendor.  The  winds  of  Autumn 
may  blow  over  the  spot  where  they  fell,  and  the 
snows  of  winter  bury  their  stalks  from  the  eye  — 
and  yet  they  are  not  gone.  As  the  warm  breezes 
of  April  play  over  their  beds  and  the  gentle  Spring 
touches  their  roots  with  her  magic  wand,  they  will 
shoot  up  again  and  become  the  pride  and  glory  of 
the  field.  It  is  for  this,  for  this  that  I  love  thee, 
beautiful  Autumn,  with  thy  sunshine,  thy  shade, 
and  thy  chilling  blasts.  If  thou  art  sad  and  mel 
ancholy,  there  is  sweetness  in  thy  very  sadness, 
and  sunlight  in  thy  sombre  hues.  How  sweet  and 
consoling  the  thought,  that  after  the  AUTUMN  or 
LIFE  hath  set  in  upon  us,  and  closed  our  eyes 
in  death,  we  shall  awake  again  in  an  eternal 
SPRING  beyond  the  grave.  Not  more  certain  are 
the  rose  and  wild-flower  to  re-appear  after  their 
winter  sleep,  than  are  the  flowers  that  bloom  in 
the  domestic  garden  and  beautify  the  walks  of  life, 
to  spring  forth  hereafter  in  the  garden  of  Paradise, 
arrayed  in  such  glory  as  the  tongue  cannot  de 
scribe  nor  the  heart  of  man  conceive.  What 
sweeter  or  more  perfect  symbol  is  there  of  man's 
immortality,  than  the  flower-wreathed  evergreen 

9* 


102 


THE   PLUME. 


that  climbs  around  his  tombstone  and  sheds  its 
perfume  over  the  sod  beneath  which  he  sleeps? 

Reflections  like  these  rose  involuntarily  to  my 
lips,  as,  in  one  of  my  evening  rambles  about  the 
village  in  which  I  had  erected  my  editorial  throne, 
and  from  which  I  was  in  the  habit  of  delivering 
sage  homilies  and  exhortations  as  often  as  once  a 
week,  I  came,  for  the  thousandth  time,  upon  the 
old  church-yard.  It  was  at  the  close  of  one  of 
those  enchanting  days,  known  only  to  our  New 
England  climate,  when  Summer  and  Autumn,  min 
gling  their  balmy  breaths  into  an  atmosphere  of  al 
most  Elysian  softness,  seem  to  embrace  and  smile 
upon  each  other  with  unwonted  sweetness.  The 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  glanced  with  their  arrowy 
light  from  point  to  point,  gilding  every  tombstone 
and  mound  and  modest  shaft,  with  a  brilliancy  as 
dazzling  and  golden  as  if  it  were  an  irradiation 
from  the  confines  of  the  better  land. 

As  I  threaded  the  little  avenues  of  the  sacred 
enclosure,  and  marked  the  crowded  slabs  and  de 
cayed  stones  at  the  head  of  the  graves  of  the  vil 
lage  dead,  I  could  not  avoid  giving  utterance  to 
the  language  with  which  I  have  introduced  this 
simple  sketch.  Strolling  leisurely  along  the 
well-trod  paths,  now  stopping  to  pluck  a  decaying 
flower,  or  to  decipher  an  inscription  upon  some 
moss-covered  stone,  I  observed  the  old  sexton  at 
his  customary  labors  with  his  spade.  Near  him 


-4* 


CLARA    REVERE. 


103 


stood  a  modest  slab,  of  virgin  whiteness,  which  he 
seemed  to  regard  with  more  than  ordinary  rever 
ence,  as,  pausing  from  his  work  and  wiping  the 
sweat  from  his  forehead,  he  leaned  upon  his  spade 
to  direct  my  attention  to  it. 

"What  grave  is  that,  my  good  friend?"  said 
I,  "around  which  the  drooping  wild  flowers 
cluster  so  beautifully.  They  seem  to  linger  near 
it  as  though  they  were  the  peculiar  guardians  of 
the  spot,  and  were  loath  to  breathe  their  last  in 
cense-offering  to  the  sleeper  below,  and  surrender 
their  holy  trust." 

"That  simple  slab,"  said  the  old  man,  "is  one 
of  the  few  —  pardon  me.  for  saying  so  —  that  I 
love  to  stop,  in  my  labors,  to  gaze  at.  It  records 
the  name  of  her  who  is  known  as  the  POOR  BLIND 
GIRL.  Just  stoop  down,  if  you  please,  and  read 
its  inscription." 

I  did  so,  and  read  upon  the  little  white  slab  the 
following  simple  but  touching  inscription  :  — 


HERE    LIES 

CLARA    REVERE, 

THE    POOR    BLIND    GIRL. 

She  shall  tee  in  heaven. 


"What  is  her  story?"  said  I.     "Is  it  wild  and 


104  THE    PLUME. 

romantic,  or  simple  and  without  incident?  Was 
she  in  love?" 

"She  was,  but  with  her  Father  in  Heaven," 
said  the  sexton,  with  an  impressiveness  which  I 
did  not  look  for.  "  It  is  a  sad  tale,  and  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  it.  It  was  but  yesterday  that  I 
plucked  a  flower  from  her  grave,  whose  cup  was 
closed  and  opened  not,  as  the  warmth  of  the  balmy 
air  played  upon  it.  How  like  the  fate  of  the  poor 
girl  was  that  little  flower.  If  you  will  sit  down 
upon  this  stone,  I  will  tell  you  her  brief  story." 

Seating  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  the  slab,  the  old 
man  gave  me  a  sketch  of  the  little  sufferer,  which 
I  will  relate,  in  my  own  way.  Though  brief  and 
devoid  of  stirring  or  splendid  incident,  its  very 
simplicity  touched  my  heart  and  left  an  impression 
there  which  has  often  led  me  to  seek  the  little 
white  slab  in  the  village  church-yard. 


Clara  was  in  her  sixteenth  year,  fair  and  beau 
tiful  exceedingly.  And  yet  it  was  not  her  personal 
attractions  alone,  matchless  as  they  were,  which 
constituted  her  supreme  loveliness.  The  beauty 
of  her  soul  was  impressed  upon  every  line  of  her 
witching  countenance,  and  her  heart,  which  was 
love  itself,  seemed  to  be  imaged  in  the  sunny  dim 
ples  and  smiles  that  nestled  around  her  transpa 
rent  cheeks  and  her  budding  lips.  Blessed  as  she 
was,  beyond  most  of  her  sex,  with  a  fascinating 


CLARA   REVERE.  105 

exterior  —  gay  and  high-spirited  to  an  unwonted 
degree,  she  had  passed  most  of  her  infancy  and 
girlhood  without  being  permitted  to  behold  the 
faces  of  father  and  mother,  or  to  admire  those 
beautiful  scenes  in  the  natural  world,  of  which  she 
might  be  deemed  the  impersonation.  So  young, 
so  amiable,  so  beautiful,  and  yet,  by  a  solemn  vis 
itation  of  God,  Clara  was  all  but  hopelessly  blind. 
Such  an  affliction  would  have  broken  the  spirit  of 
most  girls  of  her  age,  and  blighted  their  hopes  of 
earthly  happiness  forever.  Not  so  with  Clara  Re 
vere.  Nature  had  blessed  her  with  a  sunny  heart, 
which  lent  its  hues  to  every  incident  that  marked 
her  innocent  life.  Her  laugh  was  as  free,  and 
rung  as  merrily,  as  that  of  any  of  the  playmates 
who  sought  to  administer  to  her  happiness  in  her 
privation. 

There  was  one  thing,  above  all,  that  contrib 
uted,  in  no  small  degree,  to  her  gladness  and 
cheerfulness  —  it  was  the  idea,  long  cherished 
—  one  which  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of 
her  very  soul,  absorbing  all  her  thoughts,  form 
ing  the  subject  of  all  her  dreams  —  that  she 
should  SOON  BE  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT!  In  her 
playful  hours,  or  in  those  moments  of  abstrac 
tion  which  would  now  and  then  suddenly  come 
upon  her,  while  engaged  in  her  sports,  this  one 
idea  —  this  glorious  hope,  appeared  to  fasten  upon 
her  with  a  tenacity  which  no  returning  sense  of 


106  THE   PLUME. 

her  situation  could  undermine  or  weaken.  To 
prevent  their  daughter  falling  into  a  melancholy 
state  of  mind,  and  to  keep  up  the  buoyancy  of 
her  heart,  her  parents  had  flattered  her,  perhaps 
too  often,  with  the  belief — nay,  with  the  promise 
—  that  she  should  soon  be  restored  to  sight.  It 
is  not  strange  that,  by  degrees,  her  thoughts 
became  almost  exclusively  directed  to  the  ful 
filment  of  what  she  at  last  regarded  as  a  sacred 
pledge  from  their  lips.  In  her  artless  and  some 
times  touching  conversations  with  her  mother,  she 
often  alluded  to  the  promise  of  her  restoration,  in 
language  which  partook  of  the  warmth  and  ear 
nestness  of  her  soul,  and  borrowed  its  coloring 
from  that  sweetness  of  disposition  which  so 
charmed  those  who  saw  her.  Perhaps  no  specta 
cle  sooner  excites  the  sympathy  of  the  beholder, 
than  that  of  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  in  her  sit 
uation.  Her  blindness  rendered  her  trebly  dear 
and  interesting  to  all. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  June.  The  wind, 
dallying  among  the  roses  and  honey-suckles  which 
clasped  the  pillars  on  the  terrace  in  front  of  the 
mansion,  sported  with  Clara's  dark  ringlets,  as 
she  sat  at  the  open  window.  Mrs.  Revere  had 
been  reading  to  her  daughter  a  touching  story  of 
a  bird  that  died  imprisoned  in  its  cage.  She  was 
interrupted  by  the  frequent  exclamation  from  her, 
"Was  it  blind,  mother!  — was  it  blind!"  She 


CLARA   REVERE.  107 

took  up,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the  all-absorbing 
subject  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Clara,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  wishing,  if 
possible,  to  lead  her  mind  from  the  subject  which 
occupied  it,  "I  have  not  heard  you  play  this 
morning.  The  little  bird,  of  which  I  have  been 
reading,  could  sing  sweetly  in  the  midst  of  its  con 
finement.  Will  you  not  give  me  one  of  your  fa 
vorite  airs?" 

"  O  yes,  mother,  you  will  be  so  good  to  me,  and 
I  shall  see  you  so  soon  —  shall  I  not?  What  shall 
I  sing?  Shall  it  be  sad,  or  merry  as  the  note  of 
the  little  captive  in  the  cage?" 

Seating  herself  at  the  piano,  Clara  run  her  fin 
gers  over  the  keys  with  matchless  skill,  and  sung 
the  following  words,  addressed  by  a  blind  scholar 
to  one  who  had  alluded,  in  his  presence,  to  the  dark 
eyes  of  a  beautiful  sister,  who  tenderly  watched 
over  him  in  his  blindness  : — 

And  did'st  thoa  say  her  eyes  are  black? 

Their  glances  ne'er  met  mine, 
And  yet  thy  words  this  bosom  rack, 

To  see  their  light  divine. 

Those  deep  black  eyes!    Those  deep  black  eyes! 
From  out  whose  star-lit  heaven  Love  flies. 

And  did'st  thou  say  her  eyes  are  black  ? 

Oh!  tell  me,  if  her  face, 
Like  Angels,  doth  no  sweetness  lack  — 

All  love  is  it  and  grace  ? 


108  THE   PLUME. 

Those  eyes  must  light  a  face  most  rare, 
As  brightest  stars  gem  skies  most  fair. 

And  didst  thou  say  her  eyes  are  black  ?] 

And  is  her  heart  all  love  ? 
And  doth  their  light  bear  to  and  back, 

Sweet  thoughts,  like  carrier  dove  ? 
Those  deep  black  eyes!     Oh!  could  I  see 
Their  silken  fringes  turned  on  me ! 

And  dost  thou  say  her  eyes  are  black  ? 

Her  spirit,  like  them,  pure  ? 
One  that  might  tempt  an  angel  back, 

Her  beauty  to  adore  ? 
Oh!  tell  me,  if  I  e'er  shall  see 
Those  angel  glances  beam  on  me  ! 

And  dost  thou  say  her  eyes  are  black  ? 

Their  lustrous  orbs  may  shine, 
Though  not  for  me,  o'er  life's  dull  track  — 

They  never  may  meet  mine. 
Oh!  not  for  me  those  eyes  of  jet  — 
Tell  her  I'll  dream  they  sparkle  yet ! 

Tell  her  I'll  dream  I  see  their  light  — 

E'en  though  no  random  ray 
May  ever,  from  their  starry  night,* 

Smile  on  my  darkened  way. 
And  tell  her,  in  my  visions  sweet, 

I  will  not  dream  we  ne'er  shall  meet! 


*  Oh  Night  — 

Lovely  in  your  strength  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman.  —  C /tilde  Harold. 


CLARA    REVERE.  109 

Tell,  tell  her  when  life's  dream  is  o'er, 

I'll  crave  her  angel  kiss, 
In  brighter  lands,  with  love  more  pure 

Than  that  I've  felt  in  this; 
Yes,  tell  her,  when  life's  ties  are  riven, 
Oh  bliss !  I'll  see  her  smile  in  heaven. 


During  her  performance  of  this  little  air,  Mrs. 
Revere,  who  had  thus  been  the  innocent  means  of 
giving  a  fresh  vibration  to  the  tenderest  chord  in 
her  child's  bosom,  turned  her  eyes  away  to  conceal 
her  emotion.  When  Clara  had  concluded,  she 
rose,  with  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles,  and  threw 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms. 

"Oh,  mother!  when  will  it  be?  When  will  the 
day  come  you  have  so  often  promised  me  that 
I  shall  look  out  upon  the  green  world  of  which 
you  speak,  and  admire  its  beautiful  things  — 
its  flowers  and  the  gay  birds  that  sing  so  sweetly  ? 
Every  thing  can  see  but  me  —  when  will  it  come  ? 
Soon,  soon!  will  it  not,  mother?" 

"Are  you  not  happy,  my  daughter?" 

"Happy!  Oh,  yes,  yes!  —  but,  mother,  me- 
thinks  I  should  be  happier,  if  I  could  look  up  into 
your  face  and  see  you  smile  —  should  I  not? 
There  is  the  little  rose  which  you  planted  under 
the  window;  you  told  me  last  year  I  should  gather 
its  first  blossoms,  and  admire  its  beautiful  color, 
and  now  it  is  summer  again,  and  every  one  has 

10 


110  THE   PLUME. 

seen  it  but  me.  The  birds  sing,  but  I  see  them 
not." 

"My  dear  Clara,  do  not  repine  and  grieve  at 
your  misfortune.  We  will  hope  for  the  best,  and 
pray  that  you  may  soon  be  restored  to  sight. 
What  if  I  should  tell  you-  that  the  physician  may 
be  here  to  see  you,  to-morrow?" 

"Will  he,  mother!  oh,  will  he?"  almost 
shrieked  the  little  girl. 

The  physician  was  expected  to  come  the  next 
day  and  perform  an  operation  upon  her  eyes.  Mrs. 
Revere  had  kept  this  intelligence  from  her  daugh 
ter  till  the  last  moment,  from  an  unwillingness  to 
flatter  the  poor  child  with  any  false  or  delusive 
hopes.  She  was  restrained  also  from  breaking  the 
news  to  her,  from  an  apprehension  that,  should  the 
operation  be  unsuccessful,  —  and  the  chance  was 
very  slight  that  it  would  be  otherwise,  —  so  sudden 
a  blight  of  her  heart's  yearnings  and  hopes,  which 
had  acquired  intensity  from  the  nutriment  that 
years  of  affection  had  administered  —  would  prove 
fatal  and  strike  down  the  little  sufferer  from  their 
side.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  effect  of  the 
annunciation  of  the  intelligence  upon  her.  Her 
simple  exclamation  of  delight  gives  but  a  faint  idea 
of  her  feelings  at  that  moment.  Her  cheeks  crim 
soned  suddenly,  and  she  wept  for  joy.  Mrs.  Re 
vere  was  alarmed. 

"My  daughter!" 


CLARA  REVERE.  Ill 

"  Oh,  will  he!  did  you  say  so!  will  he,  then,  re 
store  me  to  sight  ?  Then  I  shall  see  you,  mother. 
I  shall  see  the  robin  that  has  sung  for  so  many 
years  at  morn  and  evening  upon  the  old  elm  tree, 
whose  sweet  song  I  have  almost  got  by  heart. 
Day  after  day  I  hear  father's  step  as  he  comes  up 
the  path,  and  sweet  is  the  sound.  But  I  shall  see 
him  now!  I  shall  see  him.  Oh,  tell  me,  mother, 
how  does  he  look?  Is  his  face  as  kind  and  pleas 
ant  as  he  talks?  Shall  I  then  see,  see  to-morrow? 
Oh,  do  not,  DO  NOT  DISAPPOINT  ME  THIS  TIME, 
MOTHER!" 

Thus  did  the  sweet  girl  run  on,  delighted,  en 
raptured,  almost  frantic  with  joy. 

"My  sweet  Clara,  you  must  not  raise  your 
hopes  too  high.  Be  assured  that  your  father  and 
mother  would  make  any  sacrifice  that  would  re 
store  their  daughter  to  sight.  Were  it  possible, 
they  would  either  of  them  consent  to  be  blind,  that 
you  might  see.  The  physician  will  come  to-mor 
row,  but  you  must  not  expect  to  see  immediately. 
It  may  be  months  —  it  may  be " 

"Oh,  say  not  so,  say  not  so,  dear  mother!  I 
will  undergo  any  thing  for  my  sight  —  endure  any 
pain  without  a  murmur,  that  I  may  not  only  hear 
your  voice,  but  greet  your  smiles,  and  see  you 
welcome  me  to  a  new  life.  Oh,  say  not  so, 
mother." 

Such  artless,  natural,  and  unaffected  language, 


112  THE   PLUME. 

was  inexpressibly  touching  to  her,  whose  very  ex 
istence  seemed  bound  up  in  her  only  child.  Her 
feelings  on  such  occasions  can  be  but  faintly  im 
agined. 

"Clara,  my  dear,  you  must  be  calm,  and  we 
will  pray  that  the  skill  of  the  physician  may  restore 
you  to  sight. 

"I  will!  I  will,  mother!  but  oh,  do  not,  DO  NOT 

DISAPPOINT    ME    THIS    TIME." 

Such  expressions  went  to  the  mother's  heart. 
Mrs.  Revere,  as  I  have  said,  was  apprehensive  that 
Clara  would  attempt  to  grasp  too  suddenly,  too  ea 
gerly,  at  what  perhaps  might  not  be  realized,  that 
her  thoughts  would  centre  upon  nothing  but  the 
idea  of  her  complete  restoration  to  sight;  and  oh! 
if  their  prayers  and  wishes  should  not  be  crowned 
with  that  blessed  consummation,  which  they  hoped 
and  for  which  they  so  ardently  prayed,  she  trem 
bled  lest  bitter  disappointment  should  follow,  and 
lead  to  a  settled  and  confirmed  melancholy,  that 
would  either  dethrone  her  reason  or  send  her  to 
the  grave.  Her  exclamation,  "do  not  disappoint 
me,"  was  repeated  earnestly  and  often,  after  the 
brief  conversation  detailed,  and  when,  the  next 
day,  the  physician  was  announced,  whom  Clara 
had  fancied  that  she  heard  coming  to  her  relief  in 
every  step  towards  the  house,  she  burst  into  an 
almost  uncontrollable  gush  of  tears. 

Mrs.  Revere,  speechless  with  grief  and  wholly 


-4- 


CLARA  REVERE. 


113 


unable  to  control  her  emotions,  while  witnessing 
the  frantic  delight  of  her  darling  child,  as  she 
dwelt  upon  the  prospect  of  seeing,  and  of  seeing 
HER,  took  her  husband  by  the  hand,  and,  without 
speaking  a  word,  entered  an  adjoining  room. 
There  they  knelt  together,  and  offered  a  fervent 
supplication  to  the  Almighty  that  the  operation 
about  to  be  performed  might,  in  his  good  pleasure, 
lead  to  the  restoration  of  their  beloved  child,  and 
that  she  might  not  be  lost  to  them  forever. 

In  a  darkened  room  this  beautiful  girl  was  seat 
ed,  accompanied  only  by  her  parents,  while  the 
physician  commenced  the  performance  of  his  cure. 
The  operation  was  painful  in  the  extreme,  exceed 
ingly  difficult  to  perform,  and  of  a  very  delicate 
character.  It  was  a  last  resort,  and  the  submis 
sion  with  which  this  girl  of  fifteen  bore  up  under  it, 
was  astonishing  and  admirable.  She  was  calm, 
and  scarcely  a  murmur  escaped  her  lips.  Every 
thing  was  at  last  happily  completed,  and  a  bandage 
was  placed  over  her  eyes.  The  remedy  was  not 
certain,  but  the  chances  were  greatly  in  her  favor, 
that  it  would  be  completely  successful  —  not  im 
mediately,  but  in  a  few  weeks,  at  most.  On  one 
point,  however,  the  physician  had  warned  her  pa 
rents,  freely  telling  them  that  if  their  child  was  not 
calm  and  quiet,  and  especially  if  she  were  to  tear 
the  bandage  from  her  eyes,  her  case  would  be  be 
yond  human  skill,  and  her  eyesight  be  lost  forever. 
10* 


'•*• 

114  THE   PLUME. 

If  she  were  extremely  careful,  they  were  assured 
that  she  would,  in  all  probability,  be  able  soon  to 
see.  SOON  TO  SEE!  The  thought  of  it  thrilled 
through  her  soul,  imparting  a  new  existence  to  the 
poor  girl. 

This  was  glorious  news  to  Clara  —  so  delightful 
that  the  warning,  which  accompanied  it,  was  lost 
upon  her  ear.  Hardly  had  the  operator  depart 
ed  ere  she  began  to  discourse  of  her  returning 
sight.  Seated  in  the  chair,  which  she  was  cau 
tioned  not  to  leave,  she  almost  shouted  with  de 
light,  and  longed  to  bound,  in  the  excess  of  her 
joy,  into  the  room,  and  clasp  her  parents  to  her 
bosom.  They  had  at  last  fulfilled  their  promise, 
and  light  was  about  to  dawn  upon  her  eyes.  She 
would  sing  some  fragment  of  a  song,  that  she  had 
learned,  and  call  for  her  mother  and  father  to 
stand  close  to  her  side,  and  place  the  canary  birds 
with  their  cage,  and  the  rose  and  geranium  in  a 
chair  by  her  —  that  when  the  glorious  moment  ar 
rived,  she  might  first  open  her  eyes  upon  the  dear 
est  objects  of  her  heart. 

It  appeared,  indeed,  as  if  all  her  bright  hopes 
were  realized  at  once.  Years  seemed  compressed 
into  a  single  moment  of  inexpressible  joy.  She 
spoke,  with  a  full  heart,  of  the  pleasures  in  which 
she  should  indulge  —  of  visiting  her  playmates, 
conversing  with  them,  and,  most  of  all,  seeing  them, 
face  to  face.  It  was  no  moment  to  think  or  even 

4 


CLARA   REVERE.  115 

breathe  of  disappointment.  But,  alas!  how  often 
does  some  dark  shadow  suddenly  fall  upon  our 
hopes,  when  they  are  the  highest  and  brightest,  to 
dispel  and  eclipse  them  forever!  Her  feelings  be 
came  so  wrought  up,  and  she  so  longed  to  SEE, 
that  suddenly,  at  a  moment  when  her  spirits  were 
most  excited,  and  regardless  of  the  voice  that  had 
warned  her,  she  tore  the  bandage  from  her  eyes,  as 
innocent  smiles  played  upon  her  lips,  with  the 
heartfelt  exclamation,  "I  MUST  SEE,  I  MUST  SEE 
you,  MOTHER!" 

All  was  dark  and  dim  as  midnight  to  the  poor 
girl.  Her  feelings  and  those  of  her  mother,  so 
different  in  their  character,  at  this  moment,  must 
be  left  to  the  imagination  —  if  indeed  they  can  be 
fully  imagined.  Who  shall  number  the  bright 
hopes  that  were  thus  suddenly  eclipsed! 

"Clara,  my  own  Clara!"  exclaimed  the  moth 
er,  in  the  anguish  of  her  heart. 

"How  could  you  disappoint  me,  mother!  For 
give,  oh,  forgive  me DARK  —  DARK  —  DARK! 

All-seeing  God,  forgive  me!" 

The  once  gay  and  beautiful  Clara  Revere  is  no 
longer  among  the  living.  For  several  years  after 
her  sight  was  hopelessly  gone,  and  "disastrous 
eclipse"  had  fallen  upon  her  in  the  manner  I  have 
narrated,  blighting  her  hopes  and  her  blissful 
dreams,  she  lived  entirely  shut  out  from  the  world. 


116  THE   PLUME. 

She  still  retained  her  surpassing  beauty,  but  cheer 
fulness  had  passed  away  from  her  spirit  forever. 
The  joys  of  earth  seemed  to  have  been  as  sudden 
ly  stricken  out  from  her  heart,  as  the  light  of 
heaven  from  her  eyes.  Her  parents,  it  may  well 
be  supposed,  were  almost  inconsolable  at  the 
mournful  spectacle,  which  their  daughter  exhibit 
ed.  Every  effort  to  restore  her  former  buoyancy 
and  gaiety  was  unavailing.  Her  heart  was  brok 
en,  and  although  — 

The  stricken  heart, 

Like  to  the  bleeding  bird  that  cannot  sing, 
And  bathe  its  pinions  in  the  golden  air, 
Will  live,  and  live,  and  brokenly  live  on  — 

She  seemed  no  longer  to  have  a  wish  that  she 
might  be  restored  to  sight,  or  even  to  live.  Occa 
sionally,  indeed,  the  light  of  the  expiring  taper 
would  flicker  up,  for  a  moment,  and  then  as  sud 
denly  die  away.  As  she  was,  sometimes,  led  out 
upon  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house,  and  caught 
the  music  of  the  birds  or  inhaled  the  fragrance  of 
the  flowers,  she  would  give  utterance  to  a  passion 
ate  exclamation  of  delight  and  joy,  and  then,  as  if 
some  heavy  affliction  were  casting  its  shadow  over 
her  spirit,  she  would  sink  into  her  former  sadness, 
and  sorrow  would  be  imaged  in  every  line  of  her 
beautiful  countenance.  If  at  such  times  you  had 
passed  the  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  you  might 


CLARA    REVERE. 


117 


have  seen  a  little  girl,  whose  duty  it  was  to  lead  her 
by  the  hand  or  watch  her  footsteps,  reading  from 
a  thumb-worn  volume,  as  they  sat  beneath  the  old 
elm;  and  if  you  listened  attentively,  you  would 
have  found  the  volume  to  be  the  Bible,  and  that 
she  was  reading  of  the  blind  man  who  was  re 
stored  to  sight.  Her  health  and  delicate  frame  at 
length  gave  way  under  the  blight  and  disappoint 
ment  which  had  fallen  upon  her,  and  the  poor 
thing  was  consigned  to  the  grave,  at  the  foot  of 
which  we  are  sitting.  She  had  but  few  of  the 
pleasures  of  life  —  but  few  of  the  treasures  of  this 
world,  but  she  had  laid  up  in  heaven  riches  which 
are  incorruptible,  and  which  cannot  pass  away. 
Yes,  the  little  blind  girl  will  SEE  in  heaven;  and 
who  shall  say  that  she  is  not  even  now  looking 
down  upon  us  from  her  blissful  abode,  as  we  min 
gle  our  tears  by  this  simple  slab  which  marks 
her  burial-place. 

"  It  is  a  sad  tale,"  said  I,  as  the  old  sexton  end 
ed  his  recital,  "  and  if  you  will  pluck  me  a  flower 
from  her  grave,  I  will  cherish  it  till  its  cup  closes, 
and  it  withers  in  death,  as  a  symbol  of  the  sweet 
girl  who  sleeps  beneath  the  sod  upon  which  it  lav 
ishes  its  fragrance."* 

*  This  little  sketch  is  by  no  means  a  creation  of  the  fancy.  The  main 
feature  of  it,  at  least  —  that  which  represents  Clara  as  tearing  away  the 
bandage  from  her  eyes,  that  she  might  see  her  mother  the  first  moment 


118  THE    PLUME. 


THE    TRIUMPHS    OF    LABOR, 

Sung  at  the  Twelfth  Triennial  Festival  of  the  Massachu 
setts  Charitable  Mechanic  Association,  at  Faneuil  Hall, 
October  6,  1842. 

STOUT  Hearts  !  who  guard  the  starry  banner, 
That  streams  our  glorious  Union  o'er  — 

Bold  spirits !  chant,  with  loud  hosanna, 
LABOR'S  TRIUMPHS  on  the  sea  and  shore ! 

Say !  shall  the  Hero's  deeds  of  glory, 
His  blood-stained  spirit  wed  to  Fame  — 
And  the  victories  of  Peace  your  name 

Enshrine  not  in  the  heart  of  story  ? 
Press  on !  Press  on,  true  men ! 

Who  make  the  earth  smile  bright 

With  Labor's  magic  arm  and  wand  — 

The  broad  world  feels  your  might ! 

Nature's  Noblemen  !  whose  honor  bright 

Is  the  best  guardian  of  your  fame ! 
What  sceptred  fool,  with  proud  birth-right, 

Can  match  ye  in  your  deeds  or  name  ? 
Your  sceptre  —  your  true  arm  uplifted, 

To  foil  the  oak  that  builds  HIS  throne  — 

Your  empire  -^  Nature's  broad  realm  alone, 
Your  law  —  your  own  strong  minds,  high  gifted, 
Press  on !  Press  on !  &c, 

she  was  restored  to  sight  — .  is  true  to  the  letter.  The  child,  whose  hopes 
were  thus  suddenly  eclipsed  and  blighted,  in  her  excess  of  joy  at  seeing 
her  mother,  resided  not  far  from  Worcester,  and  her  parents  are  still 
living. 


THE    TRIUMPHS    OF   LABOR.  119 

The  pine-tree,  from  the  forest  springing, 
Rides  old  ocean  like  a  "  thing  of  life," 

And,  proudly  out  your  banner  flinging, 
Stems  the  surges  of  the  battle-strife. 

The  kingly  oak,  no  storm  that  bendeth, 

Bows  crownless  down  —  lo !  spring  roof  and  wall, 
From  rock  and  jewelled  mine,  majestical, 

As  Toil  her  magic  w^nd  extendeth, 
Press  on !  Press  on !  &c. 

The  loom  comes  forth  —  the  bright  lights  kindle  — 

And  the  music  of  the  dashing  stream 
Singeth  your  praise  —  the  busy  spindle, 

With  cunning  hand,  weaves  it  in  its  theme. 
"  God's  first  Temples,"  all  art  excelling, 

Your  touch  transforms,  like  Genii's  lamp  of  gold, 

To  poor  man's  palace,  with  hearts  ne'er  cold, 
And  splendid  Misery's  heartless  dwelling. 
Press  on !  Press  on !  &c. 

Bethink  ye  of  that  god-like  spirit 

Which  nerves  strong  hands,  and  true  hearts  feeds ! 
Aye  —  be  the  blood  your  sons  inherit, 

Ennobled  but  by  noble  deeds ! 
Your  Franklins  and  your  Fultons  cherish, 

Explorers  of  the  realms  of  mind ; 

Earth's  treasures  though  ye  search  and  find, 
The  mind's  wealth  only  cannot  perish. 
Press  on !  Press  on !  &c. 

Mild  Charity  is  Labor's  brightest 

Jewel,  that  decks  her  moistened  brow  — 


120  THE   PLUME. 

She  sweetens  Toil,  and  makes  that  lightest, 
Which  but  for  it  the  aching  head  would  bow ; 

The  orphan's  tear  —  can  ye  forget  it  ? 
The  widow's  prayer  —  oh,  will  ye  spurn  ? 
From  the  memory  of  your  comrade  turn  ? 

Within  your  heart  of  hearts  ye'll  set  it 
Press  on !  Press  on  !  &c. 

Brave  Hearts !  who  guard  the  starry  banner, 

That  streams  our  glorious  Union  o'er, 
Well  may  ye  chant,  in  loud  hosanna, 

LABOR'S  triumphs  on  the  sea  and  shore; 
Boast  Earth's  Mightiest  none  more  splendid  — 

Joint  offspring  of  MIND,  and  HEART,  and  HAND  ; 

The  Builders  of  your  own  Fame  ye  stand : 
Your  deeds  with  stainless  glory  blended. 
Press  on !  Press  on !  &c. 


1AY   OF    THE    SOLDIER'S    BRIDE, 

[  Recently  set  to  Music,  and  published  by  C.  H.  KEITH.] 

Many  a  string  hath  the  harp  of  Fame, 
Which  sweetly  trills  on  Beauty's  ear, 

But  the  one  that  sonnds  the  soldier's  name 
And  daring  high,  of  all  is  dear. 

Ever  bright  his  sword  and  true  as  its  steel, 

His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 

Oh !  the  Muse  of  Song  will  breathe  in  vain 
Soft  music  from  her  rose-lipped  shell, 


LAY   OF    THE    SOLDIER'S    BRIDE.  121 

Unless  she  wake  her  loftiest  strain, 

The  soldier's  fame-wrought  deeds  to  tell. 
Ever  bright  his  sword,  and  true  as  its  steel, 
His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 

They  may  twine  with  wreaths  the  statesman's  brow, — 
To  Glory  bright  may  wed  his  name, 

But  though  dear  the  shrine  where  others  bow, 
Give  me  the  soldier's  deathless  fame. 

Ever  bright  his  sword,  and  true  as  its  steel, 

His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 

And  oh  !  sweet  may  be  the  golden  light 
O'er  all  its  paths  which  Genius  sheds, 

But  sweeter  far  is  the  radiance  bright, 
That  streameth  where  the  soldier  treads. 

Ever  bright  his  sword,  and  true  as  its  steel, 

His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 

Gloweth  pure  and  bright  the  mountain  air 
That  waves  the  gallant  soldier's  plume  — 

And  young  Freedom's  torch,  if  dimmed  its  glare, 
His  bosom's  fire  will  quick  relume. 

Ever  bright  his  sword,  and  true  as  its  steel, 

His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 

Oh,  sweet  each  string  on  the  harp  of  Fame, 

O'er  which  young  Love  doth  sweep  her  fingers  — 

Over  that  which  sounds  the  soldier's  name 
And  noble  deeds,  she  longest  lingers. 

Ever  bright  his  sword,  and  true  as  its  steel, 

His  heart  to  his  land,  her  glory  and  weal. 
11 

4- 


122  THE   PLUME. 

THE    DEATH    OF    WOLFE. 

[Recently  set  to  Music,  and  published  by  C.  H.  KEITH.] 

Hark !  hark  !  the  booming  cannon's  roar  — 

The  tread  of  armies  rushing ! 
Death  rides  the  fearful  battle  o'er, 

And  see  the  warm  blood  gushing. 
Mid  sounding  trump  and  clashing  gun, 
The  hero  spurs  his  comrades  on, 

His  banner  waving  o'er  him. 

Wild,  wild  and  deep  as  ocean's  wail, 
The  cry  of  brave  men  dying ! 

The  plumed  warrior,  faint  and  pale, 
Upon  the  red  sod  lying. 

Mid  roll  of  drums,  and  plunge  of  steed, 

And  trumpets  sounding,  though  he  bleed, 
High  waves  his  banner  o'er  him. 

And  wilder  yet  that  battle  din ! 

The  last  deep  summons  sounding ; 
The  prancing  war-horse,  o'er  the  slain, 

At  the  dread  blast  is  bounding. 
Mid  fire  and  smoke  that  wrap  the  dead, 
The  bleeding  warrior  bows  his  head  — 

His  shroud,  the  banner  round  him. 

Low  chant  the  sad  and  solemn  dirge, 
For  the  young  hero  sleeping ; 


THE   FIRST   ROBIN    OF    SPRING.  123 

He  sees  not  on  the  battle-surge, 

Victory  her  vigils  keeping. 
She  lights  upon  his  sword  and  steel, 
Hails  the  loud  trumpet's  stirring  peal, 

And  waves  her  banner  o'er  him.* 


THE  FIRST  ROBIN  OF  SPRING 

Blithe  warbler  of  the  Spring ! 
Ere  the  glad  earth  puts  on  her  robe  of  green, 
And  braids  her  damask  tresses,  thou  art  seen 

On  the  old  elm  to  sing. 

Oh,  whither  from  the  storm, 
That  in  its  revelry  the  forest  bowed, 
Didst  thou  betake  thee,  far  from  busy  crowd, 

To  hide  thy  slender  form  ? 

Hid  from  the  eye  of  day, 
Didst  thou  seek  shelter  in  the  wood's  recess, 
Alone,  alone  within  the  wilderness, 

Far  from  thy  mates  away  ? 


*  The  death  of  the  gallant  Wolfe,  on  the  Heights  of  Abraham,  at  the 
head  of  his  victorious  grenadiers,  and  in  the  very  moment  of  victory, 
has  been  cited  by  the  historian  as  one  more  to  be  envied  than  that  of 
any  other  hero  in  the  annals  of  military  glory.  His  reply,  as  he  fell,  ex 
piring  in  the  arms  of  a  comrade,  when  assured  the  enemy  were  retreat 
ing  from  the  field,  is  memorable  —  "  Then,  my  boys,  I  die  content." 


124  THE   PLUME. 

Swept  the  loud  tempest  by, 
Tearing  the  feathers  from  thy  shivering  breast, 
And  pelting  thee  from  thy  warm,  sheltering  nest, 

On  the  bare  oak-bough  high  ? 

Ah !  it  were  vain  to  search 

Where  thou  from  winter's  cold  didst  find  a  home  — 
But  glad  I  see  thee,  so  familiar,  come, 

And  near  my  window  perch. 

Yet,  in  thy  wintry  flight, 

His  hand  did  watch  and  shield  from  harm  thy  form, 
Who  guides  the  sailor  in  the  ocean  storm, 

And  the  bright  stars  of  night. 

How  many  years  thy  song 
Hath  poured  its  music  on  my  slumbering  hours, 
When  morn's  first  breath  doth  wake  the  blushing 
flowers, 

Bearing  their  sweets  along. 

Ah !  now  thy  strain  I  hear, 

Among  thy  mates,  poured  from  thy  warbling  throat, 
Filling  each  grove  with  thy  gay,  cheerful  note, 

Spring's  feathered  pioneer ! 

I  love  to  hear  thee  sing, 

When  summer  groves  are  glistening  in  the  dew, 
And  gleams,  in  morning's  mingling  gray  and  blue, 

Thy  brown  and  glossy  wing. 

Thou  callest  to  thy  mate 
To  perch  upon  thy  favorite  breezy  tree, 


THE   FIRST   ROBIN   OF   SPRING.  125 

As  floats  to  heaven  thy  grateful  minstrelsey,    • 
With  happy  heart  elate. 

And  when  the  crimson  glows 
Gaily,  along  the  soft  and  mellow  west, 
Thou  teachest  to  thy  young,  within  their  nest, 

Thy  song  at  evening's  close. 

Oh,  sing  thy  gladsome  note, 

While  May  her  chaplet  of  bright,  budding  flowers 
Weaveth   o'er  hill  and  plain ;   through  her  green 
bowers 

Let  thy  sweet  music  float 

Sing,  when  the  golden  light 
Gleams  in  the  blushing  east  at  morn  —  oh  sing, 
When  dew-drops  sparkle  on  each  growing  thing, 

And  on  thy  wings,  so  bright 

Warble  thy  song,  spring  bird  ! 
When  tinted  flower-cups  open  to  the  sun  — 
And  the  light  breezes  waft  thy  music  on, 

Be  thy  sweet  carol  heard ! 

And  when,  at  eve  again, 
Lingers  the  freighted  air  the  groves  among, 
To  Him  who  shelters  thee,  thy  vesper  song 

Chant  in  one  happy  strain! 

There  is  that  to  thee  given, 
Which  teaches  man  to  hymn  his  Maker's  praise, 
And  his  faint  soul  from  cares  of  earth  to  raise, 

To  the  pure  joys  of  heaven. 
11* 


126  THE  PLUME. 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  ON  LONG  EARS, 

"  'Ear  him !  'ear  him !  'ear  the  honorable  member ! " 

Cry  of  a  Cockney  at  the  Hustings. 

I  am  a  true  son  of  the  Puritans,  and,  of  course, 
an  admirer  of  all  long-eared  gentry.  Talk  of  a 
large  nose  —  the  joke  is  in  having  long  ears.  The 
nose  is  a  sneaking,  neutral  sort  of  a  fellow,  who 
seats  himself  plump,  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
face,  selecting  the  best  seat  for  himself;  but  the 
ear  takes  one  side  or  the  other,  generally  both 
sides,  and,  therefore,  must  be  in  the  right.  The 
ear  is,  also,  the  most  important  functionary  of  the 
two;  for  a  man's  reputation  is  often  at  the  mercy 
of  the  ear,  but  never  of  the  nose.  These  organs, 
these  "side-intelligencers,"  as  Charles  Lamb 
somewhere  calls  them,  have  been  sadly  abused, 
and  most  shabbily  cuffed  in  modern  days.  Novel 
writers  will  discourse  eloquently,  while  describing 
their  heroes  or  heroines,  of  the  color  of  their  hair, 
the  shape  of  their  noses,  the  turn  of  their  lips,  the 
expression  of  their  countenance,  and  chase  a  smile 
or  a  dimple  from  one  cheek  to  the  other;  but  not 
a  word  of  their  ears.  Not  one  of  Scott's  heroes 
or  heroines  have  ears;  or,  at  any  rate,  it  is  a  mere 
matter  of  inference  with  the  reader,  whether  they 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  ON  LONG  EARS.     127 

have  or  not.  In  ancient  times,  it  was  the  custom 
of  females  to  suspend  jewels  from  the  nose  as  well 
as  the  ear;  but  with  the  advance  of  civilization, 
the  former  were  dropped,  and  the  ear  only  was 
raised  to  this  dignity.  This  is  about  the  only  cus 
tom  we  retain  from  an  uncivilized  age  as  worth 
keeping;  and  it  shows,  as  plainly  as  the  nose  on 
one's  face,  or  as  the  universal  consent  of  all  na 
tions,  wise  and  unwise,  can  show,  that  the  ear 
is  the  master  organ  of  the  human  frame. 

"  Survey  mankind,  from  China  to  Peru," 

with  Dr.  Johnson,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  this 
honorable  member  has  not  always  been  treated  as 
shabbily  as  it  is  now.  If  we  may  believe  Sir  John 
Mandeville,  (and  he  had  great  credit  with  Colum 
bus,)  the  people  of  a  portion  of  China  have  such 
large  ears  that  they  use  them  for  cushions.  Sir 
John  himself  used  his  own  for  a  night-cap,  as  I 
read  in  a  volume  before  me;  and  we  have  the 
word  of  Montaigne,  sceptic  as  he  was,  that  in  Pe 
ru  large  ears  are  esteemed  a  great  and  most  beau 
tiful  ornament.  It  is  as  well  settled,  I  believe, 
that  Homer  had  large  ears,  as  that  he  was  an 
early  riser.  Commentators  do  not  agree  whether 
the  one-eyed  Polyphemus  had  one  or  two  ears. 
Some  assert  that  the  escape  of  Ulysses  is  proof 
positive  that  he  had  but  one,  and  offer  in  evidence 
that  while  in  the  cave  the  latter  kept  himself  al- 


128  THE   PLUME. 

ways  in  the  direction  of  the  earless  side  of  the  gi 
ant's  head,  and  thus,  being  unheard,  effected  his 
retreat. 

In  Rome,  the  females  wore  jewels  of  every  des 
cription  in  their  ears,  and  the  men  wore  chains. 
They  thought  so  much  of  this  organ,  that  they  did 
not  tap  a  man  on  the  shoulder,  as  we  do,  to  draw 
his  attention,  but  were  accumstomed  vellere  au- 
rem,  to  pull  him  by  the  ear,  whence,  probably,  our 
custom  of  boxing  the  ears  is  derived.  I  can  easily 
imagine  Juvenal  clapping  both  hands  to  his  ears, 
when,  in  a  passion  at  the  stupidity  of  the  poets, 
and  the  sensuality  of  the  profligates  of  his  time,  he 
exclaims,  at  the  opening  of  his  satire,  "semper 

ego  auditor  tantum  ?  "  —  still  must  my  ears ? 

The  family  of  the  Aurelii  were  named  from  the 
largeness  of  their  ears,  as  any  etymologist  may 
see  at  once;  and  I  could  hardly  refrain  from 
breaking  out  into  a  horse-laugh,  a  few  days  ago, 
as,  bearing  in  mind  this  circumstance,  I  was  read 
ing  an  account  of  a  traveler,  who  stated  that,  while 
wandering  among  the  ruins  of  Pompeii,  he  stopped 
to  examine  an  inscription  on  a  door  of  the  house 
of  Aurelius,  and  disturbed  a  whole  nest  of  ear 
wigs!  Shakspeare,  among  other  things,  is  sup 
posed  to  have  known  something  of  human  nature, 
and,  of  course,  was  well  aware  of  the  great  value 
the  Romans  set  upon  their  ears.  Strange  that  an 
unlettered  player  should  know  so  much  of  the  real- 


A  SHORT  CHAPTER  ON  LONG  EARS. 


129 


ities  of  the  world,  — and  of  the  Roman  world,  too. 
What  an  exquisite  allusion  to  the  value  the  Ro 
mans  placed  upon  their  ears,  there  is  in  Anthony's 
speech  over  the  body  of  Caesar,  — 

"Fiiends!  Romans!  Countrymen!  lend  me  your  ears  !" 

Ears  were  scarce  in  Rome  in  later  days;  and 
we  have  some  insight  into  the  mode  of  punishment 
adopted  by  the  Roman  governors  in  the  time  of  the 
apostle,  from  his  frequent  exclamation,  —  "Let 
them  who  have  an  ear  to  hear,  hear! " 

An  old  writer  tells  an  amusing  story  of  a  witty 
knave,  who  went  to  an  old  woman,  in  London, 
and  bargained  for  as  much  lace  as  would  reach 
from  ear  to  ear.  .  When  the  price  was  settled,  he 
told  her  he  believed  she  had  not  quite  enough  in 
her  shop,  for  one  of  his  ears  was  nailed  to  the  pil 
lory  at  Bristol.  Many  an  Englishman  went  to  his 
grave,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  with  but  one  ear, 
leaving  the  other  nailed  to  the  pillory  to  look  after 
his  reputation.  Then  was  the  glory  of  ears  in 
England,  when  they  had  the  honor  of  christen 
ing  millions,  and  became  more  prominent  by  the 
black  velvet  scull-caps  which  gave  them  the  name 
of  prick-eared  puritans. 

There  are  certain  modes  of  speech,  that  break 
out,  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  prejudices  and  one's 
teeth,  which  show  the  importance  that  is  almost 
universally,  but  tacitly,  attached  to  this  honorable 


THE    PLUME. 

member,  (pardon  us,  Senators!)  We  say  of  one 
who  has  the  confidence  of  a  great  man,  that  "  he 
has  his  ear;"  and  I  can  very  readily  enter  into 
the  astonishment  of  a  Frenchman,  but  little  ac 
quainted  with  the  English  language  and  its  idoms, 
who,  upon  being  told  of  various  members  of  the 
cabinet  that  "had  the  ear  of  the  Executive," 
asked  the  precise  length  of  the  Executive  ears,  or 
if  he  had  more  than  the  common  number.  We 
ask  if  such  a  one  has  an  ear  for  music;  but  it 
would  be  deemed  disrespectful  to  the  supremacy 
of  the  ear,  if  we  were  to  ask  if  one  had  a  nose  for 
smell,  or  a  leg  for  walking.  We  speak  of  a  man's 
"  falling  over  head  and  ears  "  in  debt,  or  in  love, 
—  thus  placing  those  flankers  of  the  head  next  to 
the  head  itself.  Combatants  are,  also,  described 
as  "falling  together  by  the  ears."  I  once  heard 
a  person  assert,  seriously,  that,  rather  than  cheat 
another,  he  would  cut  off  his  finger  nails.  I 
should  have  placed  more  confidence  in  the  fellow,  if 
he  had  said  he  would  lose  an  ear.  In  some  stages 
of  society,  the  laws  would  be  satisfied  with  no  less 
than  an  ear  —  thus  showing  the  importance  of  this 
organ;  and  it  is  only  in  the  highest  degree  of  civ 
ilization  and  refinement  that  they  demand  the 
whole  body;  but  I  never  heard  that  they  would 
touch  the  nose.  Law-makers,  however,  it  may  be 
added,  by  the  way,  if  not  the  laws  themselves, 
have,  now  and  then,  shown  a  disposition  to  tweak 


KATE   AND  WILL.  131 

the  nasal  organ  of  "the  human  face  divine;"  and 
even  the  statutes  have  sometimes  demanded  that 
one  of  the  hands  should  be  thrown  in,  by  way  of 
making  up  the  full  complement  of  justice. 

Small  ears  are  said  to  denote  what  is  expressive 
ly  called  stinginess;  but  I  have  known  men  with 
ears  as  large  as  those  of  Midas,  who  would  spoil 
a  hatchet  to  cut  a  copper  into  half  cents,  and  were 
unwilling  to  pay  for  the  instruments  to  make  them 
with.  I  am  not  in  the  same  category  with  Cow- 
per,  who  says  that  Nature, 

"  Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear;" 

but  as  the  reader,  probably,  has  concluded,  by  this 
time,  that  my  own  ears  are  long  enough,  I  shall 
not  trouble  him  with  any  farther  description. 


KATE    AND    Will, 

THEIR   UNHAPPY   LOVES    AND    SAD    METAMORPHOSIS. 
[  Recently  set  to  Music,  and  published  by  C.  H.  KEITH.] 

"  Oh  dear,"  sighed  Will  Willow,  "  there's  no  rest  in  my 
pillow, 

Kate  teazes  and  vexes  and  bothers  me  so ; 
She  laughs  as  she  calls  me  her  poor  weeping  Willow, 
And,  though  she  will  swear  I'm  a  hopeful  young  fellow, 

When  I  ask  for  a  kiss,  tut !  she's  sure  to  say  No  ; 

I'm  dying,  oh,  oh !  ^et  she's  sure  to  say  No. 


4- 

132  THE   PLUME. 

Cries  Kate  —  "  Dear,  I'm  sorry,  but  pray,  what  can  I  do ; 

I  have  lots  of  prime  lovers  wherever  I  go : 
If  on  dying  your  set,  have  a  decent  set-to, 
I  will  lend  you  two  ribbons,  go,  hang  till  you're  blue ; 
I'll  know  how  it  feels  to  have  two  strings  to  my  beau, 
Two  strings  to  my  beau  —  Oh !  oh !  still  L  say  No." 

"Oh,  surely  this  Love  is  a  dangerous  fellow, 
A  sly,  arrant  thief,  who  will  rob  and  will  steal ; 

He  never  takes  No,  and  behaves  very  ill  —  oh ! 

He  breaks  into  parlors  and  kitchens,  Will  Willow, 
And  he  breaks  into  hearts,  as  I'm  sure  you  must  feel, 
You  must  feel,  oh,  oh,  still  I'm  sure  to  say  No." 

"  Oh,  yes,  cruel  Kate,  he  is  a  sly  rogue,  I  know ; 

There  is  something  gone  here  that  each  moment  I  miss ; 
And  strange  freedom  he  takes  with  both  coquette  and  beau, 
So  pray,  pardon  him,  Kate,  if  while  stealing  things  so, 
In  despite  of  your  No,  he  thus  steals  but  —  a  kiss, 
But  a  kiss,  oh !  oh !     'Tis  too  late  to  say  No." 

So,  quick  as  a  flash,  he  sought  the  rose  of  her  cheek, 
"  There,  take  that,  and  take  that ! "  in  a  passion  Kate 

cried, 

"  If  such  favors  you  want,  'tis  not  here  you  must  seek." 
And  she  gave  him  two  boxes,  so  sharp  and  so  quick, 
On  his  ear,  that  poor  Will,  oh,  he  moaned  and  he  sighed, 
Yes,  he  sighed,  he  sighed  —  "  Oh,  oh,  would  I  had  died." 

"  Oh  Kate,  I  could  bear  it,  if  you  only  had  chid  ; 

I  have  loved  you  too  well,  but  you,  treat  me  too  ill, 
For  you  smote  both  my  heart  and  my  ear,  yes  you  did ; 


KATE   AND   WILL.  133 

Would  a  bird  I  could  be,  in  the  green  forest  hid, 

Where  you  could  not  come  near,  no,  nor  whip  your 

poor  Will. 
How  you  whipped  poor  Will,  all  alone  would  I  trill. 

"And  I  —  I  too,"  Kate  cried,  with  a  toss  of  her  head, 
"  Than  be  wooed  in  this  fashion,  and  do  as  you  bid, 
I'd  be  an  insect,  I  would,  and  like  an  old  maid, 
Forever  scold  in  the  woods,  how  rather  than  wed, 
She  did  whip  her  poor  Will,  yes  she  did,  Katy  did, 
Ever  prate  how  she  did,  yes,  Kate,  Katy  did." 

Now,  sly  Cupid  no  sooner  their  fond  wishes  heard, 
As  the  quarrelsome  lovers  each  other  thus  chid, 

Than,  ere  they  once  thought,  he  took  them  both  at  their 
word, 

Changing  Kate  to  an  insect,  and  Will  to  a  bird, 
To  rehearse  their  complaints  in  the  deep  forest  hid, 
There  ever  to  moan,  whip  poor  Will  Katy  did. 

If  you  stroll  to  the  woods,  you  may  hear  what  they  say ; 

At  it  early  and  late,  they  the  old  story  trill  — 
"Katy  did  !  Katy  did  ! "  —  Katy's  tongue  wags  away, 
While  moaning  Will  answers,  as  he  hops  on  the  spray, 
And  the  tears  trickle  down  from  his  eyes  to  his  bill, 
"Whip,  whip,  whip  poor  Will,  whip-poor-will,  whip- 
poor-will." 

No  coquette,  would  they  say  —  if  to  speak  not  forbade  — 

Her  lover  should  whip,  as  whip  poor  Will  Katy  did ; 
Nor  he  venture  too  far  with  a  young  or  old  maid, 
Lest  doomed  they  both  be  to  pine  away  in  the  shade, 
12 


134  THE   PLUME. 

With  scarce  any  repose  to  their  tongue  or  eye-lid  — 
And  moan  without  mates,  "  Whip-poor-will"  —  "  Katy 
did!"* 


*  The  note  of  the  Katy-did  is  generally  heard,  I  believe,  on  the  edge  of 
a  summer  evening,  and  that  of  the  Whip-poor-will  very  early  in  the 
morning,  though  not  unfrequently  at  night.  Should  any  critical  reader  sup 
pose  there  is  any  incongruity  in  bringing  the  two  together,  and  making 
them  respond  to  each  other,  I  must  quote  the  authority  of  Drake,  whose 
opening  lines,  in  that  beautifully  imaginative  poem,  "The  Culprit  Fay," 
must  have  long  been  familiar  to  every  admirer  of  American  poetry. 

"  And  nought  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill, 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze-winged  Katy-did, 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  Whip-poor-will, 

Who  moans  unseen  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  wo, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow." 

Kate  and  Will  are  here  made  by  the  poet,  it  is  true,  to  utter  their  re 
sponsive  notes  on  the  classic  banks  of  the  Hudson ;  but  they  may  be 
heard  in  almost  every  part  of  New  England,  complaining  of  each  other 
in  the  same  never-varying  duett.  The  former  scolds  in  a  somewhat 
louder,  shriller,  and  more  energetic  tone  than  her  old  lover  —  a  circum 
stance,  by  the  way,  which  some  ill-natured  old  bachelors  attribute  to 
her  being  named  from  one  of  the  softer  sex.  It  is  said,  however,  by  nat 
uralists,  who  have  looked  into  the  matter,  that  Will  has  an  impediment 
in  his  speech,  occasioned,  either  by  his  repeated  attempts  to  out-talk  his 
tesly  companion,  before  their  melancholy  transformation,  or  by  his  con 
stant  exposure  to  the  damps  of  the  night  and  morning  air,  in  which  he  is 
most  frequently  obliged  to  be  out.  However  this  may  be,  the  com 
plaining  couple  may  be  heard,  in  all  the  New  England  States,  at  the 
proper  season.  The  reader  need  hardly  be  told,  that  a  very  large  and 
respectable  community  of  Kate's  ancestors  and  family  connections  has 
been  established,  from  time  immemorial,  in  Maine  Indeed,  their  con 
certs  in  that  State  have  immortalized  one  of  its  proudest  mountains,  by 
giving  to  it  the  entire  family  name,  Katahdin,  which  is  merely  an  abbre 
viation  ofKatydidian. 


A    RARE    VISITOR.  135 


A    RAEE    VISITOR, 

"  Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape  — 
Pry'  thee,  see  there  !    Behold  !  Look  !  Lo  I 
If  I  stand  here  I  saw  him."  —  Hamlet. 

There  are  some  people  in  the  world  who  enter 
an  editor's  sanctum  with  as  much  freedom  and 
familiarity  as  if  they  were  themselves  the  lords 
of  his  little  empire,  and  had  been  formally  installed 
upon  the  editorial  throne.  They  will  seize  his 
sceptre  —  the  pen  omnipotent  —  from  his  very 
hand,  and  brandish  it  before  his  eyes  with  all  the 
pride  of  sovereignty.  They  will  lay  violent  hands 
upon  the  regalia  of  his  office,  and  not  unfrequent- 
ly  trample  them  under  foot  in  the  very  presence 
of  royalty  itself.  Nor  do  their  spoliations  always 
stop  here.  They  cast  wistful  eyes  upon  all  the 
paraphernalia  of  papers  and  prints,  which  may  hap 
pen  to  lie  upon  his  table  or  decorate  the  walls  of 
his  little  palace,  as  if  their  fingers  itched  to  appro 
priate  them.  Indeed,  I  have  known  individuals  of 
this  class  so  oblivious  in  the  excess  of  their  delight, 
as  to  thrust  some  of  the  editor's  precious  belongings 
into  their  pockets,  or,  it  may  be,  bear  them  off  in 
his  presence,  with  all  the  pomp  of  a  conqueror  dis 
playing  the  trophies  of  victory.  Among  his  visitors 
some  rather  queer  and  comical  specimens  of  hu 
manity  will,  of  course,  occasionally  drop  in,  either 


136  THE   PLUME. 

on  business  or  for  the  laudable  purpose  of  whiling 
away  an  hour  in  familiar  chit-chat  with  the  presid 
ing  Genius  of  the  place.  I  do  not  speak  particular 
ly  of  individuals  belonging  to  the  denomination  of 
Duns  and  Bores,  as  they  are  technically  termed 
by  the  fraternity.  These,  indeed,  are  a  privileged 
class,  and  will  find  their  way  into  the  sanctum 
through  the  key-hole,  although  the  occupant  may 
have  locked  himself  in  and  put  the  key  in  his  pock 
et.  I  refer,  also,  to  those  well-meaning  persons. 
who,  having  bestowed  what  they  are  pleased  to  call 
their  patronage,  to  the  enormous  extent  of  a  quar 
ter's  subscription  in  advance,  conceive  that  they 
are,  in  consequence,  entitled  to  a  FREE  PASS  at  all 
hours  of  the  day,  and  of  the  night  to  boot.  One 
happens  in  for  the  express  purpose  of  passing  the 
the  time  of  the  day,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  for 
no  purpose  at  all.  Another  is  desirous  of  being 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  the  craft,  or,  perhaps, 
of  "seeing  the  printing  office  go."  A  third  will 
come  in  for  the  excellent  reason,  that  his  curiosity 
and  extreme  anxiety  for  the  editor's  welfare,  will 
not  allow  him  to  keep  out.  But  I  must  not  forget 
to  introduce  to  the  reader  one  or  two  visitors 
a  little  out  of  the  usual  way. 

Being  in  somewhat  of  a  drowsy  mood  one  eve 
ning  just  as  day  was  thinking  about  putting  on  his 
night-cap,  I  leaned  my  three-legged  chair  against 
the  wall,  and,  by  way  of  a  soporific,  began  to  look 


A    RAKE    VISITOR.  137 

over  the  most  delightful  of  all  books  upon  an  edi 
tor's  table  —  I  mean  that,  of  course,  containing  the 
long  catalogue  of  delinquents.  My  little  room  had 
been  almost  crowded,  during  the  day,  with  speci 
mens  of  the  various  classes  of  visitors,  to  whom  I 
have  just  alluded,  and  I  felt  in  no  very  amiable 
mood.  I  had  written  no  editorials,  and  some  one 
had  stolen  my  scissors.  Six  or  eight  PATRONS  also, 
had  run  away  without  paying  their  bills,  whose  re 
spective  delinquencies  were  to  be  transferred  to 
the  Profit  and  Loss  page  in  the  Ledger.  In  ad 
dition  to  these  vexations,  a  large  note  fell  due  on 
the  morrow,  which  must  be  met  at  all  hazards.  As 
I  sat  endeavoring  to  drive  these  unpleasant  mat 
ters  from  my  mind,  and,  if  possible,  fasten  my 
thoughts  upon  something  that  might  place  me  in 
better  humor  with  myself  at  least,  a  slight  tap  was 
heard  at  the  door,  and  in  stepped  a  bright-eyed  girl, 
courtesying  and  blushing  like  a  full-blown  rose. 

"  Are  you  the  editor,  sir?"  said  she,  in  almost  a 
whisper,  as  she  closed  the  door  and  looked  around, 
as  if  to  be  sure  there  was  no  third  person  present. 

"I  am  that  happy  mortal,"  said  I,  offering  the 
only  chair  in  the  room. 

"No,  I'm  obliged,  sir,  I  believe  I  will  not  sit 
down,  as  my  business  is  pressing.  Do  you  publish 
here,  sir?" 

"Publish!  Oh  yes  —  we  do  almost  anything  in 
that  line." 

12* 


138  THE    PLUME. 

'  '  Well,  sir,  I  —  I  want  —  that  is,  I  —  should  like 
to  have  you  publish  me,  sir,"  continued  my  fair 
visitant,  not  a  little  confused,  and  in  a  low  voice. 

"You!  Publish  you!  My  dear  girl,  our  press 
will  do  most  anything  —  but,  publish!  did  you 
say?" 

"You  see,  sir,  I  —  I  am  going  to  be1—  I  hope 
there's  nobody  to  hear,  sir"  —  said  she,  looking 
under  the  table,  and  blushing  —  "You,  see,  sir, 
I'm  going  to  be  married  —  there,  it's  out  now!" 

"Indeed  —  I  am  very  happy  to  hear  it,  and  if 
I  can  help  you  at  all  -  " 

"  Why,  sir,  they  told  me  the  editor  would  do  all 
the  publishing,  and  that  I  must  be  sure  and  call 
here  first.  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir." 

"Oh,  my  dear  girl,"  said  I,  seeing  her  confu 
sion  —  "  Dont  be  alarmed.  I  assure  you  there  is 
some  mistake  —  there  is,  indeed.  I  can  publish 
almost  anything  but  girls.  That  is  a  little  out  of 
my  line.  If  you  will  step  over  to  the  Town  Clerk, 
he  will  do  the  business  for  you." 

"  O  dear  !  Sir,  excuse  me,  I  beg.  I  thought  the 
editor  did  all  kinds  of  publishing." 

"  We  do  —  but,  still,  this  particular  kind  belongs 
rather  to  the  Town  Clerk.  When  he  and  the  par 
son  have  done  with  the  couple,  we  clinch  their 
work,  if  I  may  so  say,  that  is,  we  take  the  happy 
ones  out  of  their  hands  and  set  them  off  in  the 
world.  In  fact,  our  publishing  begins  just  where 


- 


A    RARE    VISITOR.  139 

theirs  ends.  After  you  are  married  to  your  inten 
ded,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  marry  you 
again  —  in  the  paper.  This  is  all  the  relief  I  can 
possibly  give  you,  in  the  way  of  publishing." 

"  Dear  me  !  What  a  mistake!"  said  she,  blush 
ing  redder  than  before,  and  courtesying,  as  she 
opened  the  door  —  "I'll  go  right  off  to  the  Town 
Clerk's;  but  I  beg,  sir,  you  wont  say  anything 
about  my  mistake  in  your  paper  —  and,  when  I  do 
get  married,  I'll  send  you  a  nice  piece  of  the  wed 
ding  cake,  I  will.  Good  day,  sir." 

And  away  she  tripped,  leaving  me  in  much  better 
humor  than  I  had  been  before  her  entrance. 

I  had  hardly  bowed  my  fair  visitor  out  of  the 
room,  before  in  walked  a  young  man,  in  great 
haste,  and  somewhat  out  of  breath,  who,  taking 
out  his  pocket-book,  demanded,  in  rather  an  im 
patient  tone,  a  receipt  for  ten  years'  subscription! 

"Ten  years!  Ten,  did  you  say?"  exclaimed  I, 
staring  at  him  incredulously,  and  doubting  the  evi 
dence  of  one  of  my  senses,  at  least. 

"Yes,  ten!  Five  back  and  five  ahead,  in  ad 
vance.  The  truth  is,  sir,  I  and  the  little  romp,  who 
has  just  stepped  out,  are  about  forming  a  life  co 
partnership,  and  she  insists,  as  the  very  first  arti 
cle  in  the  contract,  that  I  shall  be  on  good  terms 
with  the  editor,  or  else  she  will  never  be  on  good 
terms  with  me,  married  or  not.  She  this  moment 
stopped  me  in  the  street,  to  insist  upon  this,  and 


140  THE    PLUME. 

made  me  promise  to  call  in  and  see  you,  immedi 
ately.  I  have  just  been  into  the  Town  Clerk's,  to 
get  published,  and,  if  I  dont  hurry,  I  believe,  upon 
my  soul,  she  will  go  in  there  herself,  and  get  the 
business  all  undone  again." 

Thrusting  the  receipt  into  his  pocket,  he  hurried 
out,  and  overtook  my  blooming  visitor  just  as  she 
was  entering  the  Town  Clerk's  office. 


I  was  so  much  astonished  and  taken  aback  by 
this  last  operation,  that  it  was  not  till  'after  half  a 
dozen  counts,  that  I  could  satisfy  myself  the  money 
was  all  right,  or  indeed  that  I  had  not  been  dream 
ing  the  while.  Having  counted  it  over  a  seventh 
time,  and  carefully  placed  the  godsend  away  in 
my  desk,  I  determined  to  "have  a  little  nap  in 
my  chair,  after  the  fatigue  of  the  day.  I,  accord 
ingly,  locked  the  door  of  my  sanctum  on  the  in 
side,  took  a  cigar,  and,  leaning  back  against  the 
wall  again,  began  to  congratulate  myself  that  I 
was  rid  of  visitors  for  the  day,  and  to  speculate  — 
speculation  was  all  the  go,  then  —  upon  the  times. 
A  spider  on  the  ceiling  was  cutting  capers  with  a 
daddy-long-legs,  and,  having  bitten  off  a  couple  of 
his  legs,  let  him  go  again. 

"  So  it  is,"  thought  I,  watching  the  maimed  in 
sect,  as  he  endeavored  to  limp  from  the  scene  of 
action,  "the  tallest  of  us  must  knock  under  to  the 
iron  gripe  of  the  speculator.  Ten  dollars  a  barrel 


A    RARE    VISITOR.  141 

for  flour!  —  The  banks  blowing  up! — A  shilling  a 
dozen  for  eggs!  —  How  the  hens  will  cackle!  — 
Twenty  five  cents  for  butter!  — How  the  cows  will 
caper!  —  Fifteen  cents  for  bacon!  —  How  the  hogs 
will  squeal !  — And  only  nine  shillings  for  a  coun 
try  newspaper,  and  grumbling  at  that !  — No  cash 
—  no  cash  —  C— a-s-h !  Oh,  Cash  !  How  omnipo 
tent  art  thou !  If  thou  wouldst  but  deign  to  make 
thy  appearance  here  —  if,  O  Cash " 

"  Chink!  —  chink!  —  chink!  "  said  a  little  silver 
voice,  somewhere  in  the  room. 

Starting  from  the  slight  doze  into  which  I  had 
fallen,  and  looking  about  the  apartment,  I  ob 
served,  through  the  srnoke-wreaths  that  curled 
so  gracefully  around,  a  dapper  little  gentleman 
near  me,  with  a  couple  of  huge  bags  upon  his 
shoulders.  His  appearance  was  rather  singular. 
Dressed  in  rags,  from  head  to  foot,  he  wore  a  sil 
ver  beard  trailing  upon  his  breast,  had  a  gold  ring 
on  his  finger,  and  his  phiz  —  or  what  I  could  see 
of  it  —  shone  like  a  bran  new  dime.  When  seen 
through  the  smoke,  his  face  looked  almost  as  yel 
low  as  if  he  had  a  seven  years'  fit  of  the  jaundice. 

"Did  you  call  me?"  said  the  ragged,  bushy 
little  gentleman,  setting  down  his  bags,  and  help 
ing  himself  to  the  stool  upon  which  I  had  cocked 
my  editorial  perpendiculars.  How  he  got  into  the 
room,  unless  through  the  key-hole,  is  more  than 
I  know. 


A 

142  THE   PLUME. 

"Call  you?  Not  I  —  some  mistake!"  said  I, 
puffing  a  whiff  or  two  in  his  face. 

"Not  at  all!  I  know  better!  You  did  call  me. 
Editors  will  lie  so!  [What  an  impertinent  chap  ! 
thought  I.]  But,  no  matter,  I  dont  always  come 
when  summoned.  Give  us  your  hand!  I'm  going 
South." 

"The  deuce  you  are!     Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Oh,  nothing  particular  —  only  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  know  it,  [oh  ho  !  he's  some  old  subscriber 
come  to  pay  up,]  and  publish  the  fact  in  your  pa 
per.  I'm  going  to  make  myself  scarce.  Come  — 
your  hand  before  I  go." 

Seizing  my  dexter,  he  gave  it  a  gripe  —  not  a 
very  hard  though  a  cordial  one  —  and  was  about 
shouldering  his  bags  to  be  off.  "In  the  name  of 
all  the  delinquent  subscribers  in  the  world,"  said 
I,  [but  I  said  it  to  myself,]  "what  tag-rag  and 
bobtail  fellow  is  this  !  He's  a  curious  specimen 
of  something,  any  way  —  an  oddity,  and  I  might 
as  well  have  some  further  chat  with  him." 

"Stop!  don't  go  yet.  You  say  you  are  going 
South,  hey?" 

"Exactly!  Every  body  goes  South  now,  you 
know.  Any  commands?" 

"Got  a  —  a  family  —  I  suppose?" 

"A  family!  ha!  ha!  ho!  ho!  he!  guess  you'd 
think  so!  Why,  I've  got  more  children  of  one 
sort  and  another,  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at  in 


4- 

A    RARE   VISITOR.  143 

a  century,  my  little  fellow!  [Little!  quotha;  what 
impertinence  !  Why,  I  am  full  six  feet,  when  free 
from  the  cramp.]  You  laugh  —  but  I've  got  some 
thousands  of  my  darlings  tied  up  here  in  these 
bags.  Chink !  chink !  chink  !  Don't  you  hear 
them  laugh  at  ye?  A  family! — He!  ho!  hum! 
That  is  a  good  one!  Yes,  that  I  have!  I'm  the 
very  prince  of  lovers,  and  all  the  girls  run  after 
me,  ragged  as  I  am.  Why,  I'm  the  crack  father 
of  the  day." 

"And  a  little  cracked  in  the  upper  story,  Mr. 
Rags." 

I  let  the  fool  run  on,  and  laugh  as  much  as  he 
chose.  Observing  that  he  was  evidently  out  of  his 
senses,  and  a  candidate  for  the  Lunatic  Asylum, 
what  was  the  use  of  getting  in  a  passion. 

"  Mr.  —  a  —  what's  your  name  —  Ragmuffin  — 
how  many  of  your  likely  family  are  girls?" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  want  to  marry  one  of  my 
daughters,  do  you?  Ragged  as  I  am,  I  can  give 
them  a  good  setting  out." 
"How  many  've  you  got?" 
"Oh,  donno — ha!  ha!  ha!  —  as  to  that.  Never 
counted  'em  —  can't  count  'em!  The  old  women 
have  acted  so  like  the  deuce,  in  years  back,  with 
some  of  my  eagle-eyed  offspring,  tucking  them 
away  in  old  stockings  as  curiosities !  What  you 
grinning  at,  sir?  [I  laughed  outright,  in  the  fel 
low's  face.]  No  matter,  I'm  in  hopes  to  raise  up 


144 


THE    PLUME. 


a  precious  set  of  yellow  boys  soon,  but  donno  as  I 
shall  succeed." 

"You  don't,  hey!  Pray,  how  old  do  you  call 
yourself?" 

"Old!  ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh,  only  about  three  thou 
sand  years,  more  or  less  !"  I  instinctively  looked 
at  his  lower  regions  for  a  cloven  foot. 

"You  are  a  merry  devil,  any  how." 

"That  I  am  —  and  yet  I've  been  treated  shab 
bily  enough  to  make  any  one  sober.  I've  been 
regularly  buried  in  the  earth  ever  so  many  thou 
sand  times  —  but  some  of  my  friends  have  always 
hunted  me  up,  and  brought  me  to  life  again.  Many 
of  my  children,  too,  have  had  their  ears  clipped 
off,  been  horribly  beaten,  and  knocked  down  under 
the  hammer.  Then,  again,  rogues  have  tried  to 
pass  off  their  counterfeit  brats  for  my  resplendent 
progeny.  I  wish  you  could  see  one  of  my  daugh 
ters,  after  she  has  passed  from  one  hand  to  anoth 
er,  had  a  regular  rubbing  down,  ay,  and  her 
bright  face  flattened  to  boot.  I've  been  drowned, 
too,  and  had  a  narrow  escape  from  sharks  several 
times  of  late.  Don't  I  smell  a  little  of  salt  water?" 

"Rather  more  of  brimstone.  Where  do  you 
live,  if  one  may  be  so  bold;  that  is,  when  you  are 
at  home?" 

"Live!  ha!  ha!  ha!  what  a  question!  live! 
quotha  !  Oh  !  I  live  every  where  and  no  where  — 
any  how  and  no  how.  I  can  live  in  a  thimble,  in 


X 

A    RARE   VISITOR.  145 

an  old  drawer,  squeeze  myself  into  an  old  boot  or 
a  lady's  slipper  —  I'm  not  at  all  particular.  I  can 
sleep  in  the  clutch  of  the  miser,  or  the  reticule  of 
the  dazzling  Beauty  who  leads  up  the  dance.  I 
come  at  the  earnest  call  of  the  poor  man,  and 
bring  comfort  and  good  cheer  to  his  fireside.  I 
bear  healing  to  the  sick,  ay,  and  balm  to  the 
wounded  heart  and  the  broken  spirit.  At  one 
wave  of  my  wand,  the  desert  smiles  and  the  wil 
derness  blossoms  like  the  rose.  The  log-house  ex 
pands  into  the  regal  palace  and  the  princely  hall, 
along  the  paths  where  rny  heavy  foot  has  trod.  I 
perch  on  the  brow  of  kings,  and  shine  there  like  a 
star  in  the  forehead  of  the  sky.  I  can  take  a 
thousand  shapes,  and  find  a  home,  with  any  of 
them,  in  palace  or  cot.  I  always  start  at  a  law 
yer's  whistle.  I  am  the  MAGIC  WANDERER,  and 
have  no  particular  abiding  place.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  I  have  a  private  country  residence  in 
almost  every  village,  and  several  splendid  mansions 
in  all  your  cities,  where  I  draw  my  children  about 
me  as  fast  as  I  can  get  them  in,  and  always  find  a 
welcome  lodging.  People  are  sometimes  in  too 
great  a  hurry  to  get  me  out,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
would  pull  down  my  own  house  about  my  ears,  if  I 
did  not  stand  firmly  on  my  own  bottom.  What  the 
deuce  you  giggling  at,  sir?" 

"D'ye  know  you  are  crazy,  Mr.   Merridevil? 
You  talk  as  crooked  as  a  corkscrew,  and  as  poeti- 
13 


146  THE   PLUME. 

cal  withal  as  the  champagne  it  sets  sparkling  in 
the  glass.  You  must  be  love-cracked!" 

"No  more  than  you  are!  I  know  what  I'm 
about.  You  are  cracked  with  love  of  me  or  some 
of  my  bright-eyed  daughters.  Cracked!  ha!  ha! 
ha!  Crackee!  Why,  look  here,  I'm  an  old  crony 
of  the  Rothschilds  and  the  Barings.  I'm  hand- 
and-glove  with  most  of  your  great  men.  Were 
I  to  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to  one  of 
my  correspondents,  he'd  fork  over  the  shiners  for 
you,  that  is,  unless  the  shiners  should  happen  to 
have  forked  him  over,  a  thing  which  will  befall 
the  best  of  them,  occasionally,  in  spite  of  all  my 
warnings." 

"Poor  devil!  are  you  worth  any  thing?" 

"Oh — a  trifle.  I've  enough  to  pay  my  expenses, 
ns  I  go  along.  I  suppose  I  might  buy  up  your 
whole  continent,  if  I  said  the  word  —  and  a  good 
speculation  I  could  make  of  it." 

How  wildly  an  insane  fellow  will  talk,  when  he 
gets  a  going!  There  is  no  end  to  his  castle-build 
ing. 

"If  you  are  so  well  ofF,  Mr.  Yellowface,  why 
do  you  go  South?" 

"  Why  —  some  of  my  children,  1  fear,  are  not 
doing  very  well,  there.  Their  dwelling  places  are 
hard  run  upon,  and  I  must  go  to  look  into  matters 
a  little.  Speculators  find  they  can't  do  without 
them  —  but  they  are  pushing  them  too  far.  I 


A    RARE    VISITOR.  147 

MUST  go.  Natural  affection  spurs  me,  if  nothing 
else.  I  am  afraid,  as  it  is,  I  shall  be  too  late  to 
save  them  from  a  general  smash.  It  is  too  bad. 
But  I  mean  to  be  back  here  again  soon  among  my 
old  customers,  and  Avander  up  and  down  through 
the  country,  as  lively  as  ever.  I  am  a  great  hand 
for  being  among  active  people;  I  make  business 
brisk;  and,  again,  business  always  keeps  me  in  a 
healthy  complexion.  I  am  not  naturally  an  an 
chorite  —  though  some  fellows  would  like  to  keep 
me  locked  up  in  a  strong  box  forever." 

Why  —  he  talks  sensibly  and  coherently  enough 
at  times.  If  it  be  madness,  "there's  method  in 
it,"  thought  I. 

"Will  you  believe  it  —  I  have  been  seen  so 
rarely,  of  late,  in  this  quarter,  that  some  very  par 
ticular  friends  of  mine,  the  moment  I  was  caught 
out,  seeing  that  my  silver  beard  was  rather  long, 
have,  not  much  to  my  liking,  given  me  a  tremen 
dous  shaving.  You  see  there's  more  left  to  shave 
yet." 

"Yes,  I  see  there  is.  Why  don't  you  take  a 
tumble  over  Niagara  Falls,  to  get  your  senses 
straightened  out!" 

"Pooh!  Some  of  my  children  are  under  the 
water  there,  to  be  sure  —  but  I  shan't  trouble 
them.  D'ye  know  I  was  one  of  the  greatest 
thieves  in  the  world?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  start; 
I,  or  some  of  my  children,  have  been  imprisoned 


148  THE    PLUME. 

about  half  our  days.     I'm  a  regular   bred  pick 
pocket  —  that's  half  my  trade." 

I  insensibly  thrust  a  hand  into  my  own  pocket  to 
see  if  all  was  right  there. 

"A  pick-pocket  —  in  prison  —  hey  !  how'd  you 
get  out?" 

"Get  out!  Why,  my  friends  took  me  out,  to 
be  sure.  Yes,  I've  had  my  hands  in  every  body's 
pocket,  and  drawn  out  their  purses  when  I  chose. 
I've  fingered  your  pocket  a  hundred  times,  and  I 
mean  to  do  it  again  before  I  leave  you."  I  start 
ed  at  this  annunciation. 

"The  d  -  you  do?  You  are  wise  to  give 
timely  notice  —  but  you  are  welcome  to  all  you 
can  find,  Mr.  Impertinent.  What  else  can  you 
boast,  in  that  line?" 

"Why,  there  is  not  a  store  or  counting-room 
which  I  have  not  entered,  day  and  night,  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  away  whatever  I  had  a  fancy  to. 
I  can  have  my  pick  of  the  goods  at  any  time,  and 
the  seller  does  nothing  to  hinder  me.  He  is  always 
glad  to  see  me,  though  I  sometimes  make  heavy 
drafts  upon  his  pockets.  I  don't  like  to  boast,  but 
I  am  the  most  popular  customer  merchants  have. 
They  wink  at  iny  stealing,  in  every  nook  and  cor 
ner  of  their  stores.  An  old  fellow,  calling  himself 
Longcredit,  or  some  such  name,  has  lately  made 
me  a  little  unpopular  and  driven  me  at  a  distance. 
But  chink!  chink!  chink!  that's  my  music.  I 


4- 


A    RARE    VISITOR.  153 

and  rode  off,  full  speed  —  for  money  makes  the 
mare  go,  you  know.  "Chink!  chink!"  came 
again,  like  the  chime  of  sleigh-bells,  as  the  hoofs 
of  his  horse  struck  a  golden  light  from  the  stones, 
in  his  way. 

"Old  Cash!"  shouted  every  lawyer,  running 
after  him,  and  pleading  with  a  most  litigious  elo 
quence.  But  he  paid  np  regard  to  the  lawyer's 
whistle,  this  time.  On  he  went,  just  looking 
around,  now  and  then,  as  though  giving  a  sort  of 
half  promise  that  he  would  turn  back  —  but  no! 
When  it  fairly  got  wind  that  a  glimpse  had 
been  had  of  such  an  old  friend,  every  body  was  in 
the  streets  after  him.  Sheriffs  made  menacing 
motions  with  their  insignia  of  office.  Merchants 
and  butchers  held  out  invitingly  to  him  what  they 
thought  would  tickle  his  palate,  if  he  would  but 
turn  and  look  —  such  as  flour,  beef,  &c.  But 
no;  he  was  as  shy  of  them  all  as  a  Jew  is  of 
pork.  He  rode  off,  stiff  and  straight,  and  people, 
thrusting  their  hands  in  their  breeches  pockets,  as 
if  their  regrets  came  from  that  region,  seemed 
dumfounded,  that  they  had  got  so  near  the  RARE 
VISITOR,  without  shaking  him  by  the  hand.  But 
the  MAGIC  WANDERER  will  return;  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  I  shall  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
sending  my  paper  to  him  and  his  ten  thousand 
sons  and  daughters. 

Returning  to  my  desk,  I  found  one  year's  sub- 


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